THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


•pr* 

•&:       '  «T3  ft  •        , 


A  Singer 
From  the  Sea 

By 

AMELIA  E.  BARR 


New  York 
Dodd,  Mead  and  Company 


COPYRIGHT,  1893, 

BY 
DODD,  MEAD   &   COMPANY. 

A II  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

DENAS  PENELLES i 

CHAPTER  II. 
OH,  THE  PITY  OF  IT  ! 22 

CHAPTER  III. 
THE  COTTAGE  BY  THE  SEA,      .        .        .        .        .        .41 

CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  SEED  OF  CHANGE 59 

CHAPTER  V. 

WHAT  SHALL  BE  DONE  FOR  ROLAND?        .        .        ,        .77 

CHAPTER  VI. 
ELIZABETH  AND  DENAS,     . 95 

CHAPTER  VII. 
Is  THERE  ANY  SORROW  LIKE  LOVING?      .        .        .        .115 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
A  SEA  OF  SORROW, 138 

CHAPTER  IX. 
A  PIECE  OF  MONEY  AND  A  SONG,      .....  169 


2061843 


iv  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  X. 

PAGE 

A  VISIT  TO  ST.  PENFER  ........  181 

CHAPTER  XI. 
FATHERLY  AND  MOTHERLY  .......  199 

CHAPTER  XII. 
A  COWARDLY  LOVE,          .......  225 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
DEATH  is  DAWN  .........  25i 


CHAPTER   XIV. 
SORROW  BRINGS  Us  ALL  HOME,        .....  272 

CHAPTER  XV. 
ONLY  FRIENDS,  .........  295 

CHAPTER   XVI. 
THE  "  DARLING  DENAS,"          .       .       .        .        .        •  3*4 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
DENAS,  .       .        ......  33» 


A  SINGER  FROM  THE  SEA. 


CHAPTER  I. 

DENAS     PENELLES. 

1  Teil  me,  my  old  friend,  tell  me  why 
You  sit  and  softly  laugh  by  yourself.' 
'  It  is  because  I  am  repeating  to  myself, 

Write  !  write 
Of  the  valiant  strength, 
The  calm,  brave  bearing 
Of  the  sons  of  the  sea.'  " 

— FRENCH  ROWING  SONG. 


"And  that  is  why  I  have  written  this  book 
Of  the  things  that  live  in  your  noole  hearts. 
You  are  really  the  authors  of  it. 
I  have  only  put  into  words 
The  frank  simplicity  of  your  sailor  life." 

— GUILLAUME  DE  LA  LAUDELLE. 

FROM  Padstow  Point  to  Lundy  Race  is  one  of 
the  wildest  and  grandest  portions  of  the 
Cornish  coast,  and  on  it  there  is  always  somewhere 
a  tossing  sea,  a  stiff  breeze  above,  and  a  sucking 
tide  below.  Great  cliffs  hundreds  of  feet  high 
guard  it,  and  from  the  top  of  them  the  land  rolls 


2  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

away  in  long  ridges,  brown  and  bare.  These  wild 
and  rocky  moors,  full  of  pagan  altars,  stone  crosses, 
and  memorials  of  the  Jew,  the  Phoenician,  and  the 
Cornu-British,  are  the  land  of  our  childhood's  fairy- 
folk — the  home  of  Blunderbore  and  of  Jack  the  Giant 
Killer,  and  the  far  grander 

"Fable  of  Bellerus  old, 
And  the  great  vision  of  the  Guarded  Mount." 

But  it  is  the  Undercliff  which  has  the  perennial 
charm  for  humanity,  for  all  along  its  sloping  face 
there  are  bewildering  hummocks  and  hollows, 
checkered  with  purple  rocks  and  elder-trees.  Nar 
row  footpaths  curve  in  and  out  and  up  and  down 
among  the  fields  and  farms,  the  orchards  and  the 
glimmering  glades,  and  there  the  foxgloves  grow 
so  tall  that  they  lift  their  dappled  bells  level  with 
the  eyes. 

I  urther  down  are  queer,  quiet  towns,  hundreds  of 
years  old,  squeezed  into  the  mouths  of  deep  valleys 
— valleys  full  of  delicate  ferns  and  small  wild  roses 
and  the  white  heath,  a  flower  peculiar  to  the  locality. 
And  still  lower — on  the  very  shingle — are  the  am 
phibious-looking  cottages  of  the  fishermen.  They 
are  surrounded  by  nets  and  boats  and  lobster-pots. 
Noisy  children  paddle  in  the  flowing  tide,  and  large, 
brown,  handsome  women  sit  on  the  door-steps  knit 
ting  the  blue  guernsey  shirts  and  stockings  which 
their  husbands  wear. 

Such  a  lonely,  lovely  spot  is  the  little  village  of 
St.  Penfer.  It  is  so  hidden  in  the  clefts  of  the 
rocks  that  unless  one  had  its  secret  and  knew  the 


DEN  AS  PENELLES.  3 

way  of  its  labyrinth  down  the  cliff-breast  it  would 
be  hard  to  find  it  from  the  landward  side.  But  the 
fishermen  see  its  white  houses  and  terraced  gardens 
and  hear  the  sweet-voiced  bells  of  its  old  church 
calling  to  them  when  they  are  far  off  upon  the 
ocean.  And  well  they  know  their  cottages  clustered 
on  the  shingle  below,  and  all  day  they  may  be  seen 
among  them,  mending  their  boats,  or  painting  their 
boats,  or  standing  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets 
looking  at  their  boats,  fingering  the  while  the  bit  of 
mountain  ash  which  they  carry  there  to  keep  away 
ill-luck. 

John  Penelles  was  occupied  on  the  afternoon  of 
that  Saturday  which  comes  between  Good  Friday 
and  Resurrection  Sunday.  His  boat  was  rocking  on 
the  tide-top  and  he  seemed  to  be  looking  at  her. 
But  his  bright  blue  eyes  saw  nothing  seaward;  he 
was  mentally  watching  the  flowery  winding  way  up 
the  cliff  to  St.  Penfer.  If  his  daughter  Denas  was 
coming  down  it  he  would  hear  her  footsteps  in  his 
heart.  And  why  did  she  not  come?  She  had  been 
away  four  hours,  and  who  knew  what  evil  might 
happen  to  a  girl  in  four  hours  ?  When  too  late  to 
forbid  her  visit  to  St.  Penfer,  it  had  suddenly  struck 
him  that  Roland  Tresham  might  be  home  for  the 
Easter  holidays,  and  he  disliked  the  young  man. 
He  had  an  intuitive  dislike  for  him,  founded  upon 
that  kind  of  "  I  know  "  which  is  beyond  reasoning 
with,  and  he  had  told  Denas  that  Roland  Tresham 
was  not  for  her  to  listen  to  and  not  for  her  to 
trust  to. 

" But  there,  then,  'tis  dreadful!  dreadful!     What 


4  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

foolishness  a  little  maid  will  believe  in!"  he  mut 
tered.  "  I  have  never  known  but  one  woman  who  can 
understand  reason,  and  it  isn't  often  she  will  listen 
to  it.  Women!  women!  women!  God  bless  them!" 

He  was  restless  with  his  thoughts  by  the  time  they 
arrived  at  this  point,  but  it  still  took  him  a  few 
minutes  to  decide  upon  some  action  and  then  put 
his  great  bulk  into  motion.  For  he  was  a  large 
man,  even  among  Cornish  fishermen,  and  his  feet 
were  in  his  heavy  fishing-boots,  and  his  nature  was 
slow  and  irresolute  until  his  mind  was  fully  made 
up.  Then  nothing  could  move  him  or  turn  him,  and 
he  acted  with  that  irresistible  celerity  which  springs 
from  an  invincible  determination. 

His  cottage  was  not  far  off,  and  he  went  there. 
As  he  approached,  a  woman  rose  from  the  steps 
and,  with  her  knitting  in  her  hand,  went  inside. 
She  was  putting  the  kettle  on  the  fire  as  he  entered, 
and  she  turned  her  head  to  smile  upon  him.  It 
was  a  delightful  smile,  full  of  love  and  pleasure, 
and  she  accompanied  it  with  a  little  nod  of  her 
head  that  meant  any  good  thing  he  liked  to  ask  of 
her. 

"Aw,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "I  do  think  the  little 
maid  is  a  sight  too  long  away." 

"  She  do  have  a  long  walk,  John  dear.  St.  Penfer 
isn't  at  the  door-step,  I'm  sure." 

"You  see,  Joan,  it  is  like  this:  Denas  she  be 
what  she  is,  thank  God!  but  Roland  Tresham,  he 
be  near  to  the  quality,  and  they  do  say  a  great 
scholar,  and  can  speak  langwidges;  and  aw,  my 
dear,  if  rich  and  poor  do  ride  together  the  poor 


DEN  AS  PENELLES.  5 

must  ride  behind,  and  a  wayless  way  they  take 
through  and  over.  I  have  seen  that  often  and 
often." 

"We  mustn't  be  quick  to  think  evil,  John,  must 
we?  I'm  sure  Denas  do  know  her  place  and  her 
right,  and  she  isn't  one  to  be  put  down  below  it. 
You  do  take  a  sight  of  trouble  you  aren't  asked  to 
take,  father." 

"Do  I,  my  dear?" 

"  To  be  sure  you  do.  And  they  that  go  seeking 
trouble  are  very  like  to  find  it.  Is  Roland  Tresham 
home  again?" 

"Not  as  I  know  by  certain.  I  haven't  heard 
tell  so." 

"  There,  now !  How  people  do  go  thinking  wrong 
of  others  instead  of  themselves!  That  isn't  the 
Bible  way,  is  it,  father?" 

"To  be  sure  it  isn't,  Joan.  But  we  aren't  living 
among  Bible  people,  my  dear,  are  we  now?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that,  father.  Fisher-folk 
feature  one  another  all  the  world  over  as  much  as 
their  lines  and  boats  do.  I  think  we  could  find 
all  those  Galilean  fishers  among  the  fishers  of 
Penfer.  I  do,  really — plenty  of  Peters  and  sons  of 
Zebedee,  I'll  warrant.  Are  not  John  and  Jacob 
Tenager  always  looking  to  be  high  up  in  the  chapel  ? 
And  poor  Cruffs  and  Kestal,  how  they  do  deny  all 
the  week  through  what  they  say  on  Sunday!  And 
I  know  one  quiet,  modest  Andrew  who  never  grum 
bles,  but  is  alway  content  and  happy  when  his 
brothers  are  favoured  above  him."  And  she  looked 
and  smiled  at  her  husband  with  such  loving  admira- 


6  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

tion  that  the  big  fisherman  felt  the  glow  of  the  look 
and  smile  warm  his  heart  and  flush  his  cheeks,  and 
he  hastened  to  the  tea-table,  and  was  glad  to  be 
silent  and  enjoy  the  compliment  his  dear  Joan  had 
given  him. 

For  Joan  Penelles  was  not  only  a  good  wife,  she 
was  a  pious,  truthful,  sensible,  patient  woman.  The 
days  of  her  youthful  beauty  were  over,  but  her  fine 
face  left  the  heart  satisfied  with  her.  There  was 
room  in  her  eyes,  light  upon  her  face,  strength  and 
mature  grace  in  her  tall  figure — the  grace  of  a 
woman  who  has  grown  up  like  a  forest  tree  in  fresh 
air  and  winds  and  liberty — the  physical  grace  that 
never  comes  by  the  dancing-master.  And  her  print 
dress  and  white  kerchief  and  neatly  braided  hair 
seemed  as  much  a  part  of  her  charm  as  the  thatched 
roof,  the  yellow  stone-wort,  and  the  dainty  little 
mother  of  millions  creeping  over  the  roof  and  walls 
were  a  part  of  the  picturesque  cottage.  The  beauty 
of  Joan  Penelles  was  the  beauty  of  fitness  in  every 
part,  of  health,  of  good  temper,  of  a  certain  spiritual 
perception.  Penelles  loved  her  with  a  sure  affec 
tion;  he  trusted  in  her.  In  every  strait  of  his  life 
he  went  to  her  for  comfort  or  advice.  He  could  not 
have  imagined  a  single  day  without  Joan  to  direct  it. 

For  his  daughter  Denas  he  had  a  love  perhaps 
not  stronger,  but  quite  different  in  kind.  Denas 
was  his  only  living  child.  Denas  loved  the  sea. 
Penelles  could  remember  her  small  pink  feet  in  the 
tide,  when  they  were  baby  feet  scarce  able  to  stand 
alone.  As  she  grew  older  she  often  begged  to  go 
to  sea  with  the  fishers,  and  on  warm  summer  nights 


DEN  AS  PENELLES.  7 

she  had  lain  in  the  boat,  and  talked  to  him  and  his 
mates,  and  sung  them  such  wild,  sweet  songs  that 
the  men  vowed  she  charmed  the  fish  into  the  nets. 
For  they  had  always  wondrous  takes  when  Denas 
leaned  over  the  gunwale,  and  in  sweet,  piercing 
notes  sang  the  old  fishing-call: 

"Come,  gray  fish  !  gray  fish  ! 
Come  from  the  gray  cold  sea  ! 
Fathoms,  fathoms  deep  is  the  wall  of  net. 
Haddock  !  haddock  !  herring  !  herring  ! 
Halibut  !  bass  !  whatever  you  be, 
Fish  !  fish  !  fish  !  come  pay  your  debt. " 

And  while  the  men  listened  to  the  shrill,  impera 
tive  voice  mingling  with  the  wash  of  the  waves,  and 
watched  the  child's  long  yellow  hair  catching  the 
glory  of  the  moonlight,  they  let  her  lead  them  as 
she  would.  She  did  not  fear  storms.  It  was  her 
father  who  feared  them  for  her,  though  never  after 
one  night  when  she  was  twelve  years  old. 

"You  cannot  go  to-night,  Denas,"  he  said;  "the 
tide  is  late  and  the  wind  is  contrary." 

"Well,  then,"  the  little  maid  answered  with  deci 
sion,  "the  contrary  wind  be  God's  wind.  'Twas 
whist  poor  speed  the  fishers  were  once  making — toil 
ing  and  rowing — and  the  wind  contrary,  when  He 
came  walking  on  the  water  and  into  the  boat,  and 
then,  to  be  sure,  all  was  quiet  enough." 

There  were  no  words  to  dispute  this  position,  and 
Denas  went  with  the  fishers,  and  sat  singing  like  a 
spirit  while  the  boat  kissed  the  wind  in  her  teeth. 
And  anon  the  tide  turned,  and  the  wind  changed, 
and  there  was  a  lull,  and  so  the  nets  were  well  shot, 


8  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

and  they  came  back  to  harbour  before  the  breeze 
just  at  cock-light — that  is,  when  the  cocks  begin  to 
crow  for  the  dawning. 

Thus  petted  and  loved,  the  pretty  girl  made  her 
way  into  all  hearts,  and  when  she  said  one  day  that 
she  wanted  to  go  to  the  school  at  St.  Penfer  and 
learn  all  about  the  strange  seas  and  the  strange 
lands  that  were  in  the  world,  her  father  and  mother 
were  quite  thrilled  by  her  great  ambition.  But  she 
had  her  desire,  and  for  three  years  she  went  to  the 
private  school  at  St.  Penfer,  and  among  the  girls 
gathered  there  made  many  friends.  Chief  among 
these  was  Elizabeth  Tresham,  the  daughter  of  a  gen 
tleman  who  had  bought,  with  the  salvage  of  a  large 
fortune,  the  small  Cornish  estate  on  which  he  lived, 
or  rather  fretted  away  life  in  vain  regrets  over  an 
irrevocable  past.  Elizabeth  was  his  only  daughter, 
but  he  had  a  son  who  was  much  older  than  Eliza 
beth — a  handsome,  gay  young  man  about  whom  little 
was  known  in  St.  Penfer. 

That  little  was  not  altogether  favourable.  It 
was  understood  that  he  painted  pictures  and  played 
very  finely  on  the  piano,  and  every  one  could  see 
that  he  dressed  in  the  most  fashionable  manner  and 
that  he  was  handsome  and  light-hearted.  But  it 
could  not  be  hid  that  he  often  came  for  money,  which 
old  Mr.  Tresham  had  sometimes  to  borrow  in  St. 
Penfer  for  him.  And  business  men  noted  the  fact 
that  his  visits  were  so  erratic  and  frequently  so 
long  in  duration  that  it  was  hardly  likely  he  had 
regular  employment.  And  if  a  man  had  no  private 
steady  income,  then  for  him  to  be  without  steady 


DEN  AS   PENELLES.  9 

daily  labour  was  considered  in  St.  Penfer  suspicious 
and  not  at  all  respectable.  So  in  general  Roland 
Tresham  was  treated  with  a  shy  courtesy,  which  at 
first  he  resented,  but  finally  laughed  at. 

"  Squire  Peverall  is  afraid  of  his  daughter  and 
barely  returns  my  bow,  and  the  rector  has  sent  his 
pretty  Phyllis  to  St.  Ives  while  I  am  here,  Eliza 
beth,"  he  said  one  night  to  his  sister.  "Phyllis  is 
well  enough,  but  she  has  not  a  shilling,  and  pray 
who  would  marry  Clara  Peverall  with  only  a  paltry 
twenty  thousand?" 

"  Clara  is  a  nice  girl,  Roland,  and  if  you  only 
would  marry  and  settle  down  to  a  reasonable  life, 
how  happy  I  should  be." 

"Could  I  lead  a  more  reasonable  life,  Elizabeth? 
I  manage  to  get  more  pleasure  out  of  a  hundred 
pounds  than  some  men  get  out  of  their  thousands." 

"  And  father  and  I  carry  the  care  of  it." 

"You  are  very  foolish.  Why  carry  care?  I  do 
not.  I  let  the  men  to  whom  I  owe  money  carry 
the  care." 

"  But  father  cannot  do  that — nor  can  I.  And  to 
be  in  debt,  in  St.  Penfer,  is  disreputable." 

"Well,  Elizabeth,  is  it  reasonable  that  I  should 
suffer  for  father's  and  your  inability  to  be  happy, 
or  for  the  antiquated  notions  of  such  an  antiquated 
town  as  St.  Penfer?  I  am  only  twenty-nine,  and  the 
pleasures  of  life  are  necessities  to  me." 

"  I  am  only  nineteen,  Roland." 

"  But  then  you  are  a  girl — that  is  such  a  different 
thing." 

"Yes,  it  is  a  different  thing,"  and  Elizabeth  laid 


io  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

down  the  piece  of  linen  she  was  stitching  and 
looked  up  at  the  handsome  fellow  who  was  leaning 
against  the  open  window  and  puffing  his  cigar 
smoke  out  of  it.  She  had  the  English  girl's  adora 
tion  of  the  eldest  son,  and  likewise  her  natural  sub 
mission  to  the  masculine  element.  Besides  which, 
she  loved  Roland  with  all  her  simple  faith  and 
affection.  She  loved  him  for  his  handsome  self 
and  his  charming  ways.  She  loved  him  because 
he  had  been  her  mother's  idol,  and  she  had  prom 
ised  her  mother  never  to  desert  Roland.  She  loved 
him  because  he  loved  her  in  his  own  perfectly  self 
ish  way.  She  was  just  as  willing  to  bear  his  trou 
bles,  and  plan  for  their  relief,  and  deny  herself  for 
his  pleasure,  as  Roland  was  willing  to  accept  the" 
sacrifice.  Of  course  she  was  foolish,  perhaps  sin 
fully  foolish,  and  it  is  no  excuse  for  her  folly  to 
admit  that  there  are  thousands  of  women  in  the  same 
transgression. 

In  one  of  his  visits  to  St.  Penfer,  about  two  years 
previous  to  this  Easter  Eve,  Roland  Tresham  had 
met  Denas  Penelles.  At  that  time  he  had  been 
much  interested  in  her.  The  little  fisher-girl  with 
her  piquant  face,  her  strange  haunting  voice,  and 
her  singular  self-possession  was  a  charming  study. 
He  made  several  sketches  of  her,  he  set  her  wild, 
sweet  fisher-songs  to  music,  he  lent  her  books  to 
read,  he  talked  to  her  and  Elizabeth  of  the  wonder 
ful  London  life  which  Elizabeth  could  partly  re 
member,  but  which  was  like  a  fairy-tale  to  Denas. 

Fortunately  Elizabeth  was  jealous  of  her  brother 
and  jealous  of  her  friend,  and  she  never  gave  them 


DEN  AS  PENELLES.  n 

any  opportunity  for  private  conversation.  If  Roland 
proposed  to  see  Denas  down  the  cliff-breast,  Eliza 
beth  was  always  delighted  to  go  also.  If  Roland 
asked  Denas  to  go  into  the  garden  to  gather  fruit 
or  flowers,  or  into  the  drawing-room  to  sing  her 
songs  to  his  accompaniments,  Elizabeth  was  faith 
fully  at  the  side  of  Denas.  She  was  actuated  by  a 
variety  of  motives.  She  wished  her  brother  to 
make  a  prudent  marriage.  There  were  at  least 
three  young  girls  in  the  vicinity  eligible,  and  Eliza 
beth  believed  that  Roland  had  only  to  woo  in 
order  to  win.  Any  entanglement  with  Denas,  there 
fore,  would  be  apt  to  delay  such  a  settlement. 

She  liked  Denas,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  be  the 
means  of  giving  her  a  heartache  or  a  disappoint 
ment.  But  she  liked  her  as  a  friend  and  com 
panion,  not  as  a  probable  sister.  Mr.  Tresham  in 
the  days  of  his  commercial  glory  had  once  been 
Lord  Mayor  of  London.  Mrs.  Tresham  had  been 
"presented,"  and  the  grand  house  and  magnificent 
entertainments  of  the  Treshams  were  chronicled  in 
newspapers,  which  Elizabeth  highly  valued  and 
carefully  treasured.  She  had  also  her  full  share  of 
that  all-pervading  spirit  of  caste  which  divides 
English  society  into  innumerable  circles,  and  though 
she  did  not  dislike  the  tacit  offence  she  gave  to  the 
St.  Penfer  young  ladies  by  selecting  a  companion 
not  in  their  ranks,  she  was  always  ready  to  defend 
her  friendship  for  Denas  by  an  exaggerated  descrip 
tion  of  her  many  fine  qualities.  On  this  subject 
she  could  air  the  extreme  social  views  which  she 
heard  from  Roland,  and  which  she  always  passion- 


12  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

ately  opposed  when  Roland  advocated  them ;  but  she 
was  not  any  more  ready  to  put  her  ideas  of  an 
equality  based  on  personal  desert  into  practice 
than  was  the  most  bigoted  aristocrat  of  her  acquaint 
ance. 

There  was  also  another  motive  for  her  care  of 
Denas,  a  strong  one,  though  Elizabeth's  mind  barely 
recognised  its  existence.  John  Penelles,  though 
only  a  fisher,  was  a  man  who  had  influence  and  who 
had  saved  money.  Once  when  Mr.  Tresham  had 
been  in  a  great  strait  for  cash,  Penelles,  remember 
ing  Denas,  had  cheerfully  loaned  him  a  hundred 
pounds.  Elizabeth  recollected  her  father's  anxiety 
and  his  relief  and  gratitude,  and  a  friend  who  will 
open,  not  his  heart  or  his  house,  but  his  purse,  is  a 
rare  good  friend,  one  not  to  be  lightly  wronged  or 
lost.  Besides  these  reasons,  there  were  many  smaller 
ones,  arising  out  of  petty  social  likes  and  dislikes 
and  jealousies,  which  made  Miss  Tresham  deter 
mined  to  keep  Denas  Penelles  precisely  in  the  posi 
tion  to  which  she  had  at  first  admitted  her — that  of 
a  friend  and  companion. 

To  visitors  she  often  used  the  adjective"  humble" 
before  the  noun  "friend,"  glossing  it  with  a  some 
what  exaggerated  account  of  Denas  and  their  rela 
tionship,  but  with  Denas  herself  she  never  thought 
of  such  qualification.  Denas  had  all  the  native 
independence  of  her  class — the  fisher  class,  who 
neither  sow  nor  reap,  but  take  their  living  direct 
from  the  hand  of  God.  She  was  proud  of  her 
father,  and  proud  of  his  boats,  and  proud  of  his  skill 
in  managing  them.  She  said,  whenever  she  spoke 


DEN  AS   PENELLES.  13 

of  him :  "  My  father  is  an  upright  man.  He  is  a  fine 
sailor  and  a  lucky  fisher.  Every  one  trusts  my 
father.  Every  one  honours  him." 

Of  course  Denas  recognised  the  differences  in  her 
friend's  life  and  her  own.  Mr.  Tresham's  old  stone 
mansion  was  large  and  lofty.  It  had  fine  gardens, 
and  it  had  been  well  furnished  from  the  wreck  of 
the  London  house.  Elizabeth  played  on  the  harp 
and  piano  in  a  pretty,  fashionable  way,  and  she  had 
jewelry,  and  silk  dresses,  and  many  adornments 
quite  outside  of  the  power  of  Denas  to  obtain.  But 
Denas  never  envied  her  these  things.  She  looked 
on  them  as  the  accidentals  of  a  certain  station,  and 
God  had  not  put  her  in  that  station.  In  her  own 
she  had  the  very  best  of  all  that  belonged  to  it. 
And  as  far  as  personal  adornment  went,  she  was 
neither  vain  nor  envious.  Her  dark-blue  merino 
dress  and  her  wide  straw  hat  satisfied  her  ideas  of 
propriety  and  beauty.  A  shell  comb  in  her  fair 
hair  and  a  few  white  hyacinths  at  her  throat  were 
all  the  ornaments  she  desired.  So  dressed  that  Eas 
ter  Eve,  she  had  stood  a  moment  with  her  hat  in  her 
hand  before  her  mother,  and  asked,  with  a  merry 
little  movement  of  her  eyes  and  head,  "  what  she 
thought  of  her?"  and  Joan  Penelles  had  told  her 
child  promptly: 

"You  be  sweet  as  blossoms,  Denas." 
There  was  an  engagement  between  her  and  Eliza 
beth  to  adorn  the  altar  for  the  Resurrection  Service, 
and  it  was  mainly  this  duty  which  had  delayed  her 
until  John  Penelles  began  to  worry  about  her  long 
absence.  He  did  not  ask  himself  why  he  had  all  in 


14  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

a  moment  thought  of  Roland  Tresham  and  felt  a 
shiver  of  apprehension.  He  was  not  accustomed  to 
reason  about  his  feelings,  it  was  so  much  easier  to 
go  to  Joan  with  them.  But  this  evening  Joan  did 
not  quite  satisfy  him.  He  drank  his  tea  and  ate 
plentifully  of  his  favourite  pie,  of  fresh  fish  and 
cream  and  young  parsley,  and  then  said: 

"Joan,  my  dear,  I  have  an  over-mind  to  light  my 
pipe  and  saunter  up  the  cliff-breast.  I  may  meet 
Denas. " 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  go,  father.  It  do  look  as 
if  you  had  lost  trust  in  Denas — misdoubting  one's 
own  is  a  whist  poor  business  and  not  worth  the  fol 
lowing. " 

"Aw,  my  dear,  I  just  want  to  talk  a  few  words  to 
her  quiet-like.  If  Denas  is  company  ing  with  Roland 
Tresham  she  oughtn't  to  do  it,  and  I  must  tell  her 
so,  that  I  must.  My  dear  girl,  right  is  right  in  the 
devil's  teeth." 

He  said  the  words  so  sternly  that  they  seemed  to 
make  a  gloom  in  the  cottage,  but  Joan's  cheerful 
laugh  cleared  it  away.  "  You  be  such  a  dear,  good, 
careful  father,  John,"  she  said,  as  she  tucked  in  with 
a  caressing  movement  the  long  ends  of  his  kerchief. 
"I  was  only  thinking  that  if  it  be  good  to  watch, 
it  is  far  better  to  trust — there  then,  isn't  it,  father?" 

"Why,  my  dear,  I'll  watch  first  and  I'll  trust 
after — that's  right  enough,  isn't  it,  Joan?" 

Joan  sighed  and  smiled,  and  Penelles,  with  his 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  turned  his  face  landward.  Joan 
thought  a  moment  and  then  called  to  him: 

"Father!     Paul  Tynton  is  very  bad  to-day.      He 


DEN  AS   PENELLES.  15 

was  taken  ill  when  the  moon  was  three  days  old; 
men  die  who  sicken  on  that  day.  Hadn't  you  bet 
ter  call  and  speak  a  word  with  him?  He  is  in  your 
class,  you  know." 

"  He  was  taken  when  the  moon  was  four  days  old ; 
he'll  have  a  hard  little  time,  but  he'll  get  up  again." 

There  was  nothing  else  she  could  think  of,  and 
she  knit  her  brows  and  turned  in  to  her  house  duties. 
Joan  did  not  want  any  meeting  between  her  husband 
and  Roland  Tresham.  She  did  not  want  anything 
to  occur  which  would  interfere  with  Denas  visiting 
Miss  Tresham,  for  these  visits  were  a  source  of  great 
pleasure  to  Denas  and  great  pride  to  herself.  And 
Joan  could  not  believe  that  there  was  any  danger  to 
be  feared  from  Roland;  Denas  had  known  him  for 
two  years  and  nothing  evil  had  yet  happened.  If 
Roland  had  said  one  wrong  word  to  Denas,  Joan 
was  sure  her  child  would  have  told  her. 

While  she  was  thinking  of  these  things,  John 
Penelles  went  slowly  up  the  winding  path  that  led 
to  the  top  of  the  cliff.  It  was  sweet  and  bright  on 
either  hand  with  the  fragile,  delicate  flowers  of  early 
spring.  He  stopped  frequently  to  look  at  them, 
and  he  longed  to  touch  them,  to  hold  them  in  his 
palm,  to  put  them  against  his  lips.  But  he  looked 
at  his  big,  hard  hands,  and  then  at  the  flowers,  and 
so,  shaking  his  head,  walked  on.  The  blackbird 
was  piping  and  the  missel-thrush  singing  in  one  or 
two  of  her  seven  languages,  and  John  felt  the  spring 
joy  stirring  in  his  own  heart  to  melody.  He  sat  in 
the  singing-pew  at  St.  Penfer  Chapel,  and  he  had  a 
noble  voice,  so  he  shook  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe, 


T6  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

and  clasping  his  hands  behind  his  back  was  just 
going  to  give  the  blackbirds  and  thrushes  his  even 
ing  song,  when  he  heard  the  rippling  laugh  of 
Denas  a  little  ahead  of  him. 

He  told  himself  in  a  moment  that  it  was  not  her 
usual  laugh.  He  could  not  for  his  life  have  defined 
the  difference,  but  there  it  was.  Before  he  saw  her 
he  knew  that  Roland  Tresham  was  with  her,  and  in 
a  moment  or  two  they  came  suddenly  within  his 
vision.  Denas  was  walking  a  little  straighter  than 
usual,  and  Roland  was  bending  toward  her.  He 
was  gay,  laughing,  finely  dressed;  he  was  doing  his 
best  to  attract  the  girl  who  walked  so  proudly,  so 
apart,  and  yet  so  happily  beside  him.  Penelles 
went  forward  to  meet  them.  As  they  approached 
Denas  smiled,  and  the  young  man  called  out: 

"  Hello,  Penelles!  How  do  you  do?  Anclwhat's 
the  news?  And  how  is  the  fishing?  I  was  just 
bringing  Denas  home — and  hoping  to  see  you." 

"  Aw,  then,  sir,  you  can  see  for  yourself  how  I  be, 
and  the  news  be  none,  and  the  fishing  be  plenty." 

"  St.  Penfer  harbour  is  not  much  of  a  place, 
Penelles.  I  was  just  telling  Denas  about  London." 

"St.  Penfer  be  a  hard  little  place,  but  it  do  give 
us  a  living,  sir ;  a  honest  living,  thank  God !  Come, 
Denas,  my  dear." 

As  he  spoke  he  gently  took  the  girl's  hand,  and 
with  a  perfectly  civil  "Good-evening,  sir, "  turned 
with  her  homeward. 

"Too  fast,  Penelles;  I  am  going  with  you." 

"Much  obliged;  not  to-night,  sir.  It  be  getting 
late.  Say  good-evening,  Denas." 


DEN  AS  PENELLES.  17 

There  was  something  so  final  about  the  man's 
manner  that  Roland  was  compelled  to  accept  the 
dismissal,  but  it  deeply  offended  him,  and  the  un 
reasonable  anger  opened  the  door  for  evil  thoughts; 
and  evil  thoughts — having  a  cursed  and  powerful 
vitality — immediately  began  to  take  form  and  to 
make  plans  for  their  active  gratification.  Denas 
walked  silently  down  the  narrow  path  before  her 
father.  He  could  see  by  the  way  she  carried  herself 
and  by  the  swing  of  the  little  basket  in  her  hand 
that  she  was  vexed,  and  he  had  a  sense  of  injustice 
in  her  attitude  which  he  could  not  define,  but  which 
wounded  his  great  loving  heart  deeply.  At  last  they 
reached  the  shingle,  and  he  strode  to  her  side. 

"You  be  in  a  great  hurry  now,  Denas,"  he  said. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  my  mother." 

"What  is  it,  dear?     Father  will  do  as  well." 

"No,  he  won't.  Father  is  cruel  cross  to-night, 
and  thinking  wrong  of  his  girl  and  wrong  of  others 
who  meant  no  wrong. " 

"Then  I  be  soiry  enough,  Denas.  Come,  my 
dear,  we  won't  quarrel  for  a  bad  man  like  Roland 
Tresham. " 

"He  isn't  bad,  father." 

"  He  is  cruel  bad — worse  than  an  innocent  girl 
can  know.  Aw,  my  dear,  you  must  take  father's 
word  for  it.  How  was  he  walking  with  you  to 
night?  'Twas  some  devil's  miracle,  I'll  warrant." 

"  No,  then,  it  was  not.  He  came  from  London  on 
the  afternoon  train,  and  Miss  Tresham  had  a  bad 
headache  and  could  not  set  me  home  as  she  always 
does." 

3 


i8  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

"You  should  have  come  home  alone.  There  was 
nothing  to  fear  you." 

"'Tis  the  first  time." 

"And,  my  dear,  'tis  the  last  time.  Mind  that! 
'Twill  be  a  bad  hour  for  Roland  Tresham  if  I  see 
him  making  love  to  my  girl  again." 

"  He  didn't  say  a  word  of  love  to  me,  father." 

"  Aw,  then,  he  was  looking  it — more  shame  to  him, 
not  to  give  looks  words." 

"  Cannot  a  man  look  at  a  pretty  girl  ?  I  call  that 
nonsense,  father." 

"  Roland  Tresham  can't  look  at  you,  Denas,  any 
more  as  I  saw  him  looking  at  you  to-night — bold 
and  free,  and  sure  and  laughing  to  his  own  heart  for 
the  clever  he  was,  and  the  devil  in  his  eyes  and  on 
his  tongue.  'Twas  all  wrong,  my  dear,  or  I  wouldn't 
be  feeling  so  hot  and  angry  about  it.  I  wouldn't 
be  feeling  as  if  my  heart  was  cut  loose  from  its 
moorings  and  sinking  down  and  down  as  deep  as 
fear  can  send  it." 

"You  might  trust  me,  father." 

"Aw,  my  sweet  girl,  there's  times  an  angel  can't 
be  trusted,  or  so  many  wouldn't  have  lost  them 
selves.  It  takes  a  man  to  know  men  and  all  the 
wickedness  mixed  up  in  their  flesh  and  blood. 
There's  your  mother,  Denas — God  bless  her!" 

Joan  came  strolling  forward  to  meet  them,  her 
large,  handsome  face  beaming  and  shining  with 
love  and  pride.  But  she  was  immediately  sensi 
tive  to  the  troubled,  angry  atmosphere  in  which  her 
husband  and  child  walked,  and  she  looked  into 
John's  face  with  the  inquiry  in  her  eyes. 


DEN  AS  PENELLES.  19 

"  Denas  is  vexed  about  Roland  Tresham,  mother." 

"There  then,  I  thought  Denas  had  more  sense 
than  to  trouble  herself  or  you,  father,  with  the  like 
of  him.  Your  new  frock  is  home,  Denas,  and  pretty 
enough,  my  dear.  Go  and  look  at  it  before  it  be 
too  dim  to  see." 

Denas  was  glad  to  escape  to  her  room,  and  Pe- 
nelles  turned  suddenly  silent  and  said  no  more  until 
he  had  smoked  another  pipe  on  his  own  doorstep. 

Then  he  went  into  the  cottage  and  sat  down. 
Joan  was  by  the  fire  with  her  knitting  in  her  hand, 
and  softly  humming  to  herself  her  favourite  hymn: 

"When  quiet  in  my  house  I  sit." 

Penelles  let  her  finish,  and  then  he  told  her  all 
that  he  saw  and  all  that  he  thought  and  every  word 
he  and  Denas  had  spoken.  "  And  I  said  what  was 
right,  didn't  I,  Joan?"  he  asked. 

"  No  words  at  all  are  sometimes  better  than  good 
words,  John.  When  the  wicked  was  before  him, 
even  David  didn't  dare  to  say  good  and  right 
words. " 

"  David  wasn't  a  St.  Penfer  fisherman,  Joan,  and 
the  wicked  men  of  his  day  were  a  different  kind  of 
wicked  men — they  just  thought  of  a  bad  thing  and 
went  ar\d  did  it.  They  didn't  plot  and  plan  how  to 
make  others  wicked  for  them  and  with  them." 

"  What  do  you  know  wrong  of  Roland  Tresham, 
John?" 

"What  do  I  know  wrong  of  Trelawny's  little 
Jersey  bull  ?  Nothing.  It  never  hurt  me  yet.  But 
I  see  the  devil  in  his  eyes  and  in  the  lift  of  his 


20  A    SLVGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

feet  and  the  toss  of  his  horns  and  the  switch  of 
his  tail,  and  I  know  right  well  he'd  rip  me  to  pieces 
if  I'd  only  give  him  the  chance.  That's  the  way  I 
know  Roland  Tresham  is  a  bad  one.  I  see  the 
devil  in  the  glinting  of  his  eyes  and  the  mock  of  his 
smile,  and  I  wouldn't  have  been  more  sick  fright 
ened  to-night  if  I'd  seen  a  tiger  purring  around 
Denas  than  I  was  when  I  got  the  first  glimpse  of 
Tresham  bending  down,  coaxing  and  flattering  our 
little  girl.  He's  a  bad  man,  sent  with  sorrow  and 
shame  wherever  he  goes,  and  I  know  it  just  as  I 
know  the  long  dead  roll  of  the  waves  and  the  white 
creeping  mist — like  a  dirty  thief — which  makes  me 
cry  out  at  sea  'All  hands  to  reef!  Quick!  All 
hands  to  reef!'  ' 

"  There  then,  John,  if  wrong  and  danger  there  be, 
what  must  be  done  ?  " 

"Keep  the  little  maid  out  of  it.  Don't  let  her  go 
to  Mr.  Tresham's.  I  wouldn't  hear  tell  of  it.  If 
Denas  would  only  listen  a  bit  to  Tris  Penrose,  he'd 
be  the  man  for  her — a  good  man,  a  good  sailor, 
and  he  do  love  the  very  stones  Denas  steps  on,  he 
do  for  sure." 

"She  used  to  like  Tris,  but  these  few  months  her 
love  has  all  quailed  away." 

"'Tis  dreadful!  dreadful!  Why  did  God  Al 
mighty  make  women  so?  Here  be  good  love  going 
a-begging  to  them  and  getting  nothing  but  a  frown 
and  a  hard  word,  while  devil's  love  is  fretted  for 
and  heart-nursed.  Whatever  is  a  woman's  love  made 
of,  I  do  wonder?" 

As  he  asked  the  question  he  knocked  his  pipe 


DEN  AS  PENELLES.  21 

against  the  jamb  to  clean  it  out,  and  then  quickly 
turned  his  head,  for  an  inner  door  opened  and  Denas 
peeped  out  and  then  came  forward  and  put  her  arm 
around  his  neck  and  said: 

"Woman's  love  or  man's  love,  who  knows  how 
God  makes  it,  father?  And  the  fisherman's  poet — 
a  far  wiser  man  than  most  men — asks  and  answers 
the  same  troublesome  question  in  his  way.  What  is 
love?  How  does  it  come? 

"  '  Is  it  sucked  with  your  milk  ?  is  it  mixed  with  your  flesh  ? 
Does  it  float  about  everywhere  like  a  mesh, 
So  fine  you  can't  see  it  ?    Is  it  blast  ?    Is  it  blight  ? 
Is  it  fire  ?    Is  it  fever  ?     Is  it  wrong  ?     Is  it  right  ? 
Where  is  it  ?    What  is  it  ?     The  Lord  above, 
He  only  knows  the  strength  of  love; 
He  only  knows,  and  He  only  can, 
The  root  of  love  that  is  in  a  man."  * 

For  a  woman;  that's  harder  still,  isn't  it,  father? 
But  never  fret  yourself,  father,  for  Denas  loves  you 
and  mother  first  of  all  and  best  of  all."  And  she 
slipped  on  to  his  knee  and  stretched  out  her  hand 
to  her  mother,  and  so,  kissing  the  tears  off  her 
father's  face  and  the  smiles  off  her  mother's  lips, 
she  went  happily  to  her  sleep. 

And  a  great  trust  came  into  the  father's  and 
mother's  hearts;  they  spoke  long  of  their  hopes  and 
plans  for  her  happiness,  and  then,  stepping  softly  to 
her  bedside,  they  blessed  her  in  her  sleep.  And  she 
was  dreaming  of  Roland  Tresham.  So  mighty  is 
love,  and  yet  so  ignorant;  so  strong,  and  yet  so 
weak;  so  wise,  and  yet  so  easily  deceived. 
*  T.  E.  Brown,  M.A. 


CHAPTER  II. 

OH,   THE    PITY    OF    IT! 

"One  love  is  false,  one  love  is  true  : 
Ah,  if  a  maiden  only  knew  !  " 

"It  is  dear  honey  that  is  licked  off  a  thorn." 

'TpHE  thing  Elizabeth  Tresham  had  done  her  best 
1  to  prevent  had  really  happened,  but  she  was 
not  much  to  blame.  Circumstances  quite  unexpect 
edly  had  disarranged  her  plans  and  made  her  phys 
ically  unable  to  keep  her  usual  guard  over  her  com 
panion.  In  fact,  Elizabeth's  own  love-affairs  that 
eventful  Saturday  demanded  all  her  womanly  diplo 
macy  and  decision. 

Miss  Tresham  had  the  two  lovers  supposed  to  be 
the  lot  of  most  women — the  ineligible  one,  whom 
she  contradictively  preferred,  and  the  eligible  one, 
who  adored  her  in  spite  of  all  discouragements. 
The  first  was  the  young  rector  of  St.  Penfer,  a  man 
to  whom  Elizabeth  ascribed  every  heavenly  perfec 
tion,  but  who  in  the  matter  of  earthly  goods  had  not 
been  well  considered  by  the  church  he  served.  The 
living  of  St.  Penfer  was  indeed  a  very  poor  one,  but 
then  the  church  itself  was  early  Norman  and  the 
rectory  more  than  two  hundred  years  old.  Eliza 
beth  thought  poverty  might  at  least  be  picturesque 
under  such  conditions;  and  at  nineteen  years  of 

22 


OH,   THE  PITY  OF  IT!  23 

age  poverty  has  a  romantic  colouring  if  only  love 
paint  it. 

Robert  Burrell,  the  other  lover,  had  nothing  roman 
tic  about  him,  not  even  poverty.  He  was  unpoeti- 
cally  rich — he  even  trafficked  in  money.  The  rec 
tor  was  a  very  young  man;  Burrell  was  thirty-eight 
years  old.  The  rector  wrote  poetry,  and  under 
stood  Browning,  and  recited  from  Arnold  and  Morris. 
Burrell's  tastes  were  for  social  science  and  statistics. 
He  was  thoughtful,  intelligent,  well-bred,  and  reti 
cent;  small  in  figure,  with  a  large  head  and  very 
fine  eyes.  The  rector,  on  the  contrary,  was  tall  and 
fair,  and  so  exceedingly  handscme  that  women  es 
pecially  never  perceived  that  the  portal  to  all  his 
senses  was  small  and  low  and  that  he  was  incapable 
of  receiving  a  great  idea. 

On  that  Saturday  morning  Robert  Burrell  re 
solved  to  test  his  fate,  and  he  wrote  to  Miss  Tresham. 
It  was  a  letter  full  of  that  passionate  adoration  he 
was  too  timid  to  personally  offer,  and  his  protesta 
tions  were  honourably  certified  by  the  offer  of  his 
hand  and  fortune.  It  was  a  noble  letter;  a  letter 
no  woman  could  easily  put  aside.  It  meant  to 
Elizabeth  a  sure  love  to  guard  and  comfort  her  and 
an  absolute  release  from  the  petty  straits  and  anx 
ieties  of  genteel  poverty.  It  would  make  her  the 
mistress  of  the  finest  domestic  establishment  in  the 
neighbourhood — it  would  give  her  opportunities  for 
helping  Roland  to  the  position  in  life  he  ought  to 
occupy;  and  this  thought — though  an  after  one — 
had  a  great  influence  on  Elizabeth's  mind. 

After  some  consideration  she   took  the  letter  to 


24  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

her  father.  He  was  in  one  of  his  most  querulous 
moods,  ill-disposed  to  believe  in  any  good  thing 
coming  to  him.  He  read  the  letter  under  such 
influence,  and  yet  he  could  not  but  be  sensible  of  its 
importance. 

"  It  is  a  piece  of  unexpected  good  fortune  for  you, 
Elizabeth,"  he  said  with  a  sigh.  "  Of  course  it  will 
leave  me  alone  here,  but  I  do  not  mind  that  now; 
all  else  has  gone — why  not  you  ?  I  thought,  how 
ever,  the  rector  was  your  choice.  I  hope  you  have 
no  entanglement  there." 

"  He  has  never  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  but  he 
has  constantly  shown  that  he  wished  it.  He  is 
poor — I  think  he  felt  that." 

"  He  has  made  love  to  you,  called  you  the  fairest 
girl  on  earth,  made  you  believe  he  lived  only  in  your 
presence,  and  so  on,  and  so  on  ?" 

"Yes,  he  has  talked  in  that  way  for  a  long  time." 

"  He  never  intends  to  ask  you  to  marry  him.  He 
asked  Dr.  Eyre  if  you  had  any  fortune.  Oh,  I  know 
his  kind  and  their  ways!" 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken,  father.  If  he  knew 
Mr.  Burrell  wished  to  marry  me  he  would  venture 
to " 

"  You  think  he  would  ?  I  am  sure  he  would  not — 
but  here  the  gentleman  comes.  I  will  speak  a  few 
words  to  him  and  then  he  will  speak  to  you,  and 
after  that  you  can  answer  Mr.  Burrell's  letter. 
Stay  a  moment,  Elizabeth.  It  is  only  fair  to  tell 
you  that  I  have  no  money  but  my  annuity.  When  I 
die  you  will  be  penniless." 

So  Elizabeth  went  out  of  the  room  silent  and  with 


OH,   THE  PITY  OF  IT!  25 

her  head  drooping  a  little.  The  word  "  penniless" 
was  a  shock  to  her.  She  sat  down  in  a  large  chair 
wth  her  back  to  the  light  and  shut  her  eyes.  She 
wished  to  set  the  two  men  clearly  before  her.  It 
would  be  easy  to  love  Robert  Burrell  if  she  did  not 
love  the  other.  Did  she  love  the  other?  She  exam 
ined  her  heart  pitilessly,  and  found  always  some 
little  "  if"  crouching  in  a  corner.  In  some  way  or 
other  it  was  evident  she  did  not  believe  "  the  other  " 
would  stand  trial. 

Mr.  Tresham  had  the  same  opinion  in  a  more 
positive  form,  and  he  was  quite  willing  to  test  it. 
He  met  the  rector  with  more  effusion  than  was  usual 
with  him,  and  putting  on  his  hat  said: 

"  Walk  around  the  garden  with  me,  sir.  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you,  and  as  I  am  a  father  you 
must  permit  me  to  speak  very  plainly.  I  believe 
you  are  in  love  with  Elizabeth?" 

There  was  no  answer  from  the  young  man,  and 
his  face  was  pale  and  angry. 

"Well,  sir!     Am  I  right  or  wrong?" 

"  Sir,  I  respect  and  like  Miss  Tresham.  Every 
one  must  do  so,  I  think." 

"  Have  you  asked  her  to  marry  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  dear,  no!  Nothing  of  the  kind,  sir;  nothing 
of  the  kind!" 

"  I  thought  not.  Well,  you  see,  sir,  your  dang 
ling  about  my  house  keeps  honest  men  outside,  and 
I  would  be  obliged  to  you,  sir — in  fact,  sir,  I  require 
you  at  once  to  make  Miss  Tresham  understand  that 
your  protestations  are  lies — simple  and  straightfor 
ward  lies,  sir.  I  insist  on  your  telling  her  that  your 


26  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

love-making  is  your  amusement  and  girls'  hearts 
the  pawns  with  which  you  play.  You  will  tell 
her  that  you  are  a  scoundrel,  sir!  And  when  you 
have  explained  yourself  to  Miss  Tresham,  you  had 
better  give  the  same  information  to  Miss  Trelawny, 
and  to  Miss  Rose  Trefuses,  and  to  that  poor  little 
sewing-girl  you  practise  your  recitations  on.  Sir, 
I  have  the  greatest  contempt  for  you,  and  when  you 
have  spoken  to  Miss  Tresham,  you  will  leave  my 
house  and  come  here  no  more. " 

"It  will  give  me  pleasure  to  obey  you,  sir." 

With  these  words  he  turned  from  the  contemptuous 
old  man,  and  in  a  hurried,  angry  mood  sought  Eliza 
beth  in  her  usual  sitting-room. 

She  opened  her  eyes  as  he  opened  the  door  and 
looked  at  him.  Then  she  rose  and  went  toward 
him.  He  waved  her  away  imperatively  and  said: 

"No,  Elizabeth!  No!  I  have  no  caress  for  you 
to-day!  I  do  not  think  I  shall  ever  feel  lovingly 
to  you  again.  Why  did  you  tell  your  father  any 
thing?  I  thought  our  love  was  a  secret,  sacred 
affair.  When  I  am  brought  to  catechism  about  my 
heart  matters,  I  shut  my  heart  close.  I  am  not  to 
be  hectored  and  frightened  into  marrying  any 
woman." 

"Will  you  remember  whose  presence  you  are  in?" 

"If  you  wanted  to  be  my  wife " 

"I  do  not  want  to  be  your  wife." 

"  If  you  loved  me  in  the  least- 


"  I  do  not  love  you  in  the  least." 
"I  shall  come  here  no  more.     O  Elizabeth!     Only 
to  think!" 


OH,  THE  PITY  OF  IT!  27 

"  I  am  glad  you  come  here  no  more.  I  see  that 
you  judge  the  honour  and  fulness  of  my  heart  by 
the  infidelity  and  emptiness  of  your  own.  Go,  sir, 
and  remember,  you  discard  not  me — I  discard  you." 

Thus  speaking  she  passed  him  haughtily,  and  he 
put  out  his  hand  as  if  to  detain  her,  but  she  gathered 
her  drapery  close  and  so  left  him.  Mr.  Tresham 
heard  her  footsteps  and  softly  opened  the  door  of 
his  library.  "Come  in  here,  Elizabeth,"  he  said 
with  some  tenderness. 

"  I  have  seen  him." 

"And  he  brought  you  the  news  of  his  own  dis 
honour.  Let  him  go.  He  is  as  weak  as  a  bent  flax- 
stalk,  and  to  be  weak  is  to  be  wicked.  Bury  your 
disappointment  in  your  heart,  do  not  even  tell 
Denas — girls  talk  to  their  mothers  and  mothers  talk 
to  all  and  sundry.  Turn  your  face  to  Burrell  Court 
now — it  is  a  fair  fortune." 

"And  it  may  be  a  good  thing  for  poor  Roland." 

"  It  may.  A  respectable  position  and  a  certain 
income  is  often  salvation  for  a  man.  Write  to  Mr. 
Burrell  at  once,  and  send  the  letter  by  the  gardener. " 

That  was  an  easy  direction  to  give,  but  Elizabeth 
did  not  find  it  easy  to  carry  out.  She  wrote  half-a- 
dozen  letters,  and  none  of  them  was  satisfactory. 
So  she  finally  asked  her  lover  to  call  and  see  her  at 
seven  o'clock  that  evening.  And  it  was  very  nat 
ural  that,  in  the  stress  of  such  an  important  decision, 
the  visit  of  Denas  and  their  intention  of  dressing 
the  altar  should  be  forgotten.  It  was  a  kind  of  un 
pleasant  surprise  to  her  when  Denas  came  and  she 
remembered  the  obligation.  Of  course  she  could 


28  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

not  now  refuse  to  fulfil  it.  The  offering  was  surely 
to  God,  and  no  relation  between  herself  and  the 
rector  could  interfere  with  it.  But  it  was  a  great 
trial.  She  said  she  had  a  headache,  and  perhaps 
that  complaint  as  well  as  any  other  defined  the  hurt 
and  shock  she  had  received. 

Denas  wondered  at  Elizabeth's  want  of  interest. 
She  did  not  superintend  as  usual  the  cutting  of  the 
flowers,  so  carefully  nursed  and  saved  for  this  occa 
sion;  and  though  she  went  to  the  church  with 
Denas  and  really  did  her  best  to  make  a  heart  offer 
ing  with  her  Easter  wreaths,  the  effort  was  evident. 
Her  work  lacked  the  joyous  enthusiasm  which  had 
alwa)'s  distinguished  Elizabeth's  church  duties.  . 

The  rector  pointedly  ignored  her,  and  she  felt 
keenly  the  curious,  and  in  some  cases  the  not  kindly, 
glances  of  the  other  Easter  handmaidens.  In  such 
celebrations  she  had  always  been  put  first;  she  was 
now  last — rather,  she  was  nowhere.  It  would  have 
been  hard  to  bear  had  she  not  known  what  a  triumph 
she  held  in  abeyance.  For  Mr.  Burrell  was  the 
patron  of  St.  Penfer's  church;  he  had  given  its  fine 
chime  of  bells  and  renovated  its  ancient  pews  of 
black  oak.  The  new  organ  had  been  his  last  Christ 
mas  gift  to  the  parish,  and  out  of  his  purse  mainly 
had  come  the  new  school  buildings.  The  rector 
might  ignore  Miss  Tresham,  but  she  smiled  to  her 
self  when  she  reflected  on  the  salaams  he  would  yet 
make  to  Mrs.  Robert  Burrell. 

Now,  Denas  was  not  more  prudent  than  young 
girls  usually  are.  She  saw  that  there  was  trouble, 
and  she  spoke  of  it  She  saw  Elizabeth  was  slighted, 


OH,   THE  PITY  OF  IT!  29 

and  she  resented  it.  It  was  but  natural  under  such 
circumstances  that  the  church  duty  was  made  as 
short  as  possible;  and  it  was  just  as  natural  that 
Elizabeth  should  endeavour  to  restore  her  self- 
respect  by  a  confidential  revelation  of  the  great 
matrimonial  offer  she  had  received.  And  perhaps 
she  did  nothing  unwomanly  in  leaving  Denas  free 
dom  to  suppose  the  rector's  insolent  indifference 
the  fruit  of  his  jealousy  and  disappointment. 

In  the  midst  of  these  pleasant  confidences  Ro 
land  unexpectedly  entered.  He  had  written  posi 
tively  that  he  was  not  coming.  And  then  here  he 
was.  "  I  thought  I  could  not  borrow  for  the  trip,  but 
I  managed  it,"  he  said  with  the  bland  satisfaction 
of  a  man  who  feels  that  he  has  accomplished  a  praise 
worthy  action.  For  once  Elizabeth  was  not  quite 
pleased  at  his  visit.  She  would  rather  it  had  not 
occurred  at  such  an  important  crisis  of  her  life.  She 
was  somewhat  afraid  of  Roland's  enthusiasms  and 
rapid  friendships,  and  it  was  not  unlikely  that  his 
first  conception  of  Mr.  Burrell's  alliance  would  be 
"  a  good  person  to  borrow  money  from." 

Also  she  wished  time  to  dress  herself  carefully 
and  solitude  to  get  the  inner  woman  under  control. 
After  five  o'clock  Denas  and  Roland  were  both  in 
her  way.  They  were  at  the  piano  singing  as  com 
placently  and  deliberately  as  if  the  coming  of  her 
future  husband  was  an  event  that  could  slip  into 
and  fit  into  any  phase  of  ordinary  life.  It  was  a 
strange,  wonderful  thing  to  her,  something  so  sacred 
and  personal  she  could  not  bear  to  think  of  discuss 
ing  it  while  Roland  laughed  and  Denas  sang.  It 


30  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

was  not  an  every-day  event  and  she  would  not  have 
it  made  one. 

She  knew  her  father  would  not  interfere,  and  she 
knew  one  way  in  which  to  rid  herself  of  Denas  and 
Roland.  Naturally  she  took  it.  A  little  after  six 
she  said:  "I  have  a  headache,  Roland,  and  shall  not 
walk  to-night.  Will  you  take  Denas  safely  down 
the  cliff?" 

Roland  was  delighted,  and  Denas  was  no  more 
afraid  of  the  gay  fellow  than  the  moth  is  of  the 
candle.  She  was  pleasantly  excited  by  the  idea  of 
a  walk  all  alone  with  Roland.  She  wondered  what 
he  would  say  to  her:  if  he  would  venture  to  give 
voice  to  the  inarticulate  love-making  of  the  last  two 
years — to  all  that  he  had  looked  when  she  sang  to 
him — to  all  that  he  meant  by  the  soft,  prolonged 
pressure  of  her  hand  and  by  that  one  sweet  stolen 
kiss  which  he  had  claimed  for  Christmas'  sake. 

They  walked  a  little  apart  and  very  silently  until 
they  came  into  the  glades  of  the  cliff-breast.  Then, 
suddenly,  without  word  or  warning,  Roland  took 
Denas  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  "Denas!  sweet 
Denas!"  he  cried,  and  the  wrong  was  so  quickly, 
so  impulsively  committed  that  for  a  moment  Denas 
was  passive  under  it.  Then  with  flaming  cheeks 
she  freed  herself  from  his  embrace.  "  Mr.  Tresham, 
you  must  go  back,"  she  said.  "I  can  walk  no  fur 
ther  with  you.  Why  were  you  so  rude  to  me?" 

"I  am  not  rude,  Denas,  and  I  will  not  go  back. 
After  waiting  two  years  for.  this  opportunity,  do  you 
think  I  will  give  it  up?  And  I  will  not  let  you  call 
me  Mr.  Tresham.  To  you  I  am  Roland.  Say  it 


OH,    THE  PITY  OF  IT!  3* 

here  in  my  arms,  dear,  lovely  Denas!  Do  not  turn 
away  from  me.  You  cannot  go  back  without  telling 
Elizabeth,  and  I  swear  you  shall  not  go  forward  until 
you  forgive  me.  Come,  Denas,  sweet,  forgive  me!" 
He  held  her  hands,  he  kissed  her  hands,  and  would 
not  release  the  girl,  who,  as  she  listened  to  his  rapid, 
eager  pleading,  became  more  and  more  disposed  to 
tenderness.  He  was  telling  the  story  no  one  could 
better  tell  than  Roland  Tresham.  His  eyes,  his 
lips,  his  smile,  his  caressing  attitudes,  all  went  with 
his  eager  words,  his  enthusiastic  admiration,  his 
passionate  assertion  of  his  long-hidden  affection. 

And  everything  was  in  his  favour.  The  lovely 
spring  eve,  the  mystical  twilight,  the  mellow  flutings 
of  the  blackbirds  and  the  vesper  thrushes  piping 
nothing  new  or  strange,  only  the  sweet  old  tune  of 
love,  the  lift  of  the  hills,  the  soft  trinkling  of 
hidden  brooks,  the  scent  of  violets  at  their  feet 
and  of  the  fresh  leaves  above  them — all  the  magic 
of  the  young  year  and  of  young  love  made  the  deli 
cious  story  Roland  had  been  longing  to  tell  and  the 
innocent  heart  of  Denas  fearing  and  longing  to  hear 
very  easy  to  interpret — very  easy  to  understand. 

Listening,  and  then  refusing  to  listen;  yielding  a 
little,  and  then  drawing  back  again,  Denas  neverthe 
less  heard  Roland's  whole  sweet  confession.  She 
was  taught  to  believe  that  he  had  loved  her.  from 
their  first  meeting;  taught  to  believe  and  half-made 
to  acknowledge  that  she  had  not  been  indifferent  to 
him.  She  was  under  almost  irresistible  influences, 
and  she  did  not  think  of  others  which  might  have 
counteracted  them.  Even  Elizabeth's  revelation 


32  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

to  her  of  her  own  splendid  matrimonial  hopes  was 
favourable  to  Roland's  arguments;  for  if  it  was  a 
thing  for  congratulating  and  rejoicing  that  Eliza 
beth  should  marry  a  man  so  much  richer  than  her 
self,  where  was  it  wrong  for  Denas  to  love  one  sup 
posed  to  be  socially  and  financially  her  superior? 

Before  they  were  half-way  to  the  shingle  Roland 
felt  that  he  had  won.  The  conviction  gave  him  a 
new  kind  of  power — the  power  all  women  delight  to 
acknowledge;  the  sweet  dictation,  the  loving  tyranny 
that  claims  every  thought  of  the  beloved.  Roland 
told  Denas  she  must  not  dare  to  remember  anyone 
but  him;  he  would  feel  it  and  know  it  if  she  did. 
She  promised  this  readily.  She  must  not  tell  Eliza 
beth.  Elizabeth  was  unreasonable,  she  was  even 
jealous  of  everything  concerning  her  brother;  she 
would  have  a  hundred  objections;  she  would  influ 
ence  his  father  unfavourably;  she  would  do  all  she 
could  to  prevent  their  seeing  each  other,  etc.,  etc. 
And  where  a  man  pleads,  one  woman  is  readily  per 
suaded  against  another.  But  Denas  was  much 
harder  to  persuade  where  the  article  of  secrecy 
touched  her  father  and  mother.  Her  conscience, 
uneasy  for  some  time,  told  her  positively  at  this 
point  that  deception  was  wicked  and  dangerous. 
Roland  could  not  win  from  her  a  promise  in  this  di 
rection.  But  he  was  not  afraid — he  was  sure  he  could 
trust  to  her  love  and  her  desire  to  please  him. 

One  of  the  cruellest  things  about  a  wrong  love  is 
that  it  delights  in  tangles  and  hidden  ways;  that  it 
teaches  and  practises  deceit  from  its  first  incep 
tion;  that  its  earliest  efforts  are  toward  destroying 


OH,   THE  PITY  OF  IT!  33 

all  older  and  more  sacred  attachments.  Roland 
was  not  willing  to  take  the  hand  of  Denas  in  the 
face  of  the  world  and  say:  "This  is  my  beloved 
wife."  Yet  for  the  secret  pleasure  of  his  secret 
love,  he  expected  Denas  to  wrong  father-love  and 
mother-love  and  to  deceive  day  by  day  the  friend 
and  the  companion  who  had  been  so  kind  and  so 
fairly  loyal  to  her. 

No  wonder  John  Penelles  hated  him  instinctively. 
John's  soul  needed  but  a  glimpse  of  the  lovers  saun 
tering  down  the  narrow  cliff-path  to  apprehend  the 
beginning  of  sorrows.  Instantaneous  as  the  glimpse 
was,  it  explained  to  him  the  restless,  angry,  fearful 
feeling  that  had  driven  him  from  his  own  cottage  to 
the  place  appointed  by  destiny  for  the  revelation  of 
his  child's  danger  and  of  his  own  admonition. 

He  was  glad  that  he  had  obeyed  the  spiritual 
order;  whatever  power  had  warned  him  had  done 
him  service.  It  is  true  the  fond  assurances  of  Denas 
had  somewhat  pacified  his  suspicions,  but  he  was 
not  altogether  satisfied.  When  Denas  declared  that 
Roland  had  not  made  love  to  her,  John  felt  certain 
that  the  girl  was  in  some  measure  deceiving  him — 
perhaps  deceiving  herself;  for  he  could  not  imagine 
her  to  be  guilty  of  a  deliberate  lie.  Alas!  lying 
is  the  vital  air  of  secret  love,  and  a  girl  must  needs 
lie  who  hides  from  her  parents  the  object  and  the 
course  of  her  affections.  Still,  when  he  thought  of 
her  arms  around  his  neck,  of  her  cheek  against  his 
cheek,  of  her  assertion  that  "  Denas  loved  no  one 
better  than  her  father  and  mother,"  he  felt  it  a  kind 
of  disloyalty  to  his  child  to  altogether  doubt  her, 
3 


34  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

He  believed  that  Denas  believed  in  herself.  Well, 
then,  he  must  try  and  trust  her  as  far  and  as  long 
as  it  was  possible. 

And  Joan  trusted  her  daughter — she  scouted  the 
idea  of  Denas  doing  anything  that  was  outside  her 
mother's  approval.  She  told  John  that  his  fear 
was  nothing  but  the  natural  conceit  of  men;  they 
thought  a  woman  could  not  be  with  one  of  their 
sex  and  not  be  ready  to  sacrifice  her  own  life  and 
the  lives  of  all  her  kinsfolk  for  him.  "It  be  such 
puddling  folly  to  start  with,  "she  said  indignantly; 
"talking  about  Denas  being  false  to  her  father  and 
mother!  'Tis  a  doleful,  dismal,  ghastly  bit  of 
cowardice,  John.  Dreadful!  aw,  dreadful!" 

Then  John  was  silent,  but  he  communed  with  his 
own  heart.  Joan  had  not  seen  Roland  and  Denas 
as  he  had  seen  them;  no  one  had  troubled  Joan  as 
he  had  been  troubled.  For  something  often  gives  to 
a  loving  heart  a  kind  of  prescience,  when  it  may  be 
used  for  wise  and  saving  ends;  and  John  Penelles 
divined  the  angry  trend  of  Roland's  thoughts,  though 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  anticipate  the  special 
form  that  trend  would  take. 

Roland  had  indeed  been  made  furiously  angry  at 
the  interference  between  himself  and  Denas.  "  I 
spoke  pleasantly  to  the  old  fisher,  and  he  was  as 
rude  as  could  be.  Rude  to  me!  Jove!  I'll  teach 
him  the  value  of  good  manners  to  his  betters." 

He  sat  down  on  a  lichen-covered  rock,  lit  a  cigar, 
and  began  to  think.  His  personal  dignity  had  been 
deeply  wounded;  his  pride  of  petty  caste  trod  upon. 
He,  a  banker's  son,  had  been  snubbed  by  a  common 


Oil,    THE  PITY  OF  IT!  35 

fisherman!  "He  took  Denas  from  me  as  if  I  was 
going  to  kill  her,  body  and  soul.  He  deserves  all 
he  suspected  me  of."  And  as  these  and  similar 
thoughts  passed  through  Roland's  mind  he  was  not 
at  all  handsome;  his  face  looked  dark  and  drawn 
and  marked  all  over  with  the  characters  sin  writes 
through  long  late  hours  of  selfish  revelry  and  riot. 

But  however  his  angry  thoughts  wandered,  they 
always  came  back  to  the  slight  of  himself  person 
ally — to  the  failure  of  Penelles  to  appreciate  the 
honour  he  was  doing  him  in  wooing  his  daughter. 
And  if  the  devil  wishes  to  enter  easily  a  man  or  a 
woman,  he  finds  no  door  so  wide  and  so  easy  of 
access  as  the  door  of  wounded  vanity  and  wounded 
self-esteem. 

Roland's  first  impulse  was  to  make  Denas  pay  her 
father's  debt.  "I  will  never  speak  to  her  again. 
Common  little  fisher-girl!  I  will  teach  her  that 
gentlemen  are  to  be  used  like  gentlemen.  Why 
did  she  not  speak  up  to  her  father?  She  stood 
there  without  a  word  and  let  him  snub  me.  The 
idea!"  These  exclamations  were,  however,  only  the 
quick,  unreasoning  passion  of  the  animal ;  when  Ro 
land  had  calmed  himself  with  tobacco,  he  felt  how 
primitive  and  foolish  they  were.  His  reflections 
were  then  of  a  different  character;  they  began  to 
flow  steadily  into  a  channel  they  had  often  wan 
dered  in,  though  hitherto  without  distinct  pur 
pose. 

"After  all,  I  like  the  girl.  She  has  a  kind  of 
nixie,  tantalising,  bewitching  charm  that  would 
drive  a  crowd  mad.  She  has  a  fresh,  sympathetic 


36  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

voice,  penetrating,  too,  as  a  clarion.  Her  folk-songs 
and  her  sea-songs  go  down  to  the  bottom  of  a  man's 
heart  and  into  every  corner  of  it.  Now,  if  I  could 
get  her  to  London  and  have  her  taught  how  to  man 
age  her  voice  and  face  and  person,  if  I  had  her 
taught  how  to  dance — Jo;re!  there' is  a  fortune  in 
it!  Dressed  in  a  fancy  fisher  costume,  singing  the 
casting  songs  and  the  boat  songs — the  calls  and 
takes  she  knows  so  well — why,  she  would  make  a 
gas-lit  theatre  seem  like  the  great  ocean,  and  men 
would  see  the  white-sailed  ships  go  marching  by, 
and  the  fishing  cobbles,  and  the  wide  nets  full  of 
gleaming  fish,  and — and,  by  Jove!  they  would  go 
frantic  with  delight.  They  would  be  at  her  feet. 
She  would  be  the  idol  of  London.  She  woul  <=i-ng 
full  pockets  empty.  I  should  have  all  ^v  ues, 
and  now  I  have  so  few  of  them.  What  u  piospect! 
But  I'll  reach  it — I'll  reach  it,  and  all  the  fishers 
in  St.  Penfer's  shall  not  hinder  me!" 

He  thought  his  plans  over  again,  and  then  it  was 
dark  and  he  rose  up  to  return  home;  but  as  he  shook 
himself  into  the  proper  fit  of  his  clothes  and  settled 
his  hat  at  the  correct  angle,  he  laughed  vauntingly 
and  said: 

"I  shall  be  even  with  you,  John  Penelles,  before 
next  Easter.  I  was  not  good  enough  for  Denas, 
was  I  not?  Well,  she  is  going  to  work  for  me  and 
for  my  pleasure  and  profit,  John  Penelles;  going  to 
make  money  for  me  to  spend,  John  Penelles.  My 
beautiful  fisher-maid!  I  dare  be  bound  she  is  dream 
ing  of  me  now.  Women!  women!  women!  What 
dear  little  fools  they  are,  to  be  sure!" 


OH,   THE  PITY  OF  IT!  37 

He  was  quite  excited  and  quite  good-tempered 
now.  A  new  plan  was  like  a  new  fortune  to  Ro 
land.  He  never  took  into  consideration  the  contrari 
ness  of  circumstances  and  of  opposing  human  ele 
ments.  His  plans  were  perfect  from  his  own  stand 
point;  the  standpoint  of  ocher  people  was  out  of  his 
consideration.  Never  before  had  he  conceived  so 
clever  a  scheme  for  getting  a  livelihood  made  for 
him.  There  was  really  nobody  but  Denas  to  inter 
fere  with  any  of  his  arrangements,  and  Denas  was 
under  his  control  and  could  be  made  more  so.  This 
night  he  felt  positive  that  he  had  "hit  the  very 
thing  at  last." 

He  reached  home  late,  but  in  exuberant  spirits. 
Eli  th  was  waiting  for  him.  She  was  beauti- 

~  '  >        >     ,  U  i 

fully  i  ;  r^d,  and  in  a  moment  he  saw  upon  her 
hand  the  flash  of  large  and  perfect  diamonds.  "  They 
were  mother's,  1  suppose,  and  I  have  as  much  right 
— yes,  more  right — to  them  than  she  has."  This  was 
his  first  thought,  but  he  did  not  express  it.  There 
was  an  air  about  Elizabeth  that  was  quite  new  to 
him;  he  was  curious  and  full  of  expectation  as  he 
seated  himself  beside  her.  She  shook  her  head  in 
a  reproving  manner. 

"  You  have  been  making  love  to  Denas.  I  see  it 
in  your  eyes,  Roland.  And  you  promised  me  you 
never  would." 

"Upon  my  honour,  Elizabeth.  We  met  the  old 
fisher  Penelles  a  long  way  up  the  cliff  and  he  took 
her  from  me.  Talking  of  making  love — pray,  what 
have  you  been  doing?  I  thought  you  had  a  head 
ache." 


38  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

"Roland,  I  am  going  to  be  married — June  the 
nth." 

"Is  that  your  engagement  ring?" 

"It  is.  Mr  Burrell  says  it  was  his  mother's  en 
gagement  ring;  but,  then,  gems  are  all  second-hand 
— a  hundred-hand — a  thousand-hand  for  that." 

"Burrell!  You  take  my  breath  away!  Burrell! 
The  man  who  has  a  bank  in  Threadneedle  Street?" 

"The  same." 

"Good  gracious,  Elizabeth!  You  have  made  all 
our  fortunes!  You  noble  girl!  I  did  not  know  he 
was  thinking  of  you." 

"  He  was  waiting  for  me.  Destiny,  Roland.  But 
he  is  a  noble-hearted  man,  and  he  loves  me  and  I 
intend  to  be  a  good  wife  to  him.  I  do  indeed.  He 
is  going  to  make  a  great  settlement  on  me,  and  I 
shall  have  an  income  of  my  own  from  it — all  my 
own,  to  do  what  I  like  with." 

"  Elizabeth,  dear,  I  always  have  loved  you  better 
than  anything  else  in  the  world.  You  will  not  for 
get  me  now,  will  you,  dear?" 

"Why,  Roland,  I  thought  of  you  when  I  accepted 
Mr.  Burrell.  When  I  am  married,  Roland,  I  shall 
manage  things  for  you  as  you  wish  them,  I  daresay. 
The  man  loves  me  so  much  that  I  could  get  not 
the  half,  but  the  whole  of  his  kingdom  from  him." 

"You  are  the  dearest,  noblest  sister  in  the  world." 

"I  could  not  bear  to  go  to  sleep  without  making 
you  as  happy  as  myself.  Now,  Roland,  there  is 
something  you  must  not  do,  and  that  is,  have  any 
love  nonsense  with  Denas  Penelles.  At  Burrell 
Court  you  will  meet  rich  girls  and  girls  of  good 


OH,   THE  PITY  OF  IT!  39 

birth,  and  your  only  chance  is  in  a  rich  marriage — 
you  know  it  is,  Roland." 

"Oh,  I  do  not  quite  think  that,  Elizabeth." 

"  Roland,  you  know  it.  How  many  situations 
have  you  had  and  lost?  If  Mr.  Burrell  gave  you  a 
desk  in  his  bank  to-morrow,  you  would  hand  back 
its  key  before  my  wedding-day." 

"  Perhaps;  but  there  are  other  ways." 

"  None  for  you  but  a  rich  marriage.  Every  other 
way  supposes  work,  and  you  will  not  work.  You 
know  you  will  not." 

"  I  have  some  objections." 

''Now,  any  trouble  with  a  fisherman's  daughter 
would  be  bad  every  way.  There  is  the  dislike  rich 
girls  have  for  low  amours,  and,  worse  still,  the  dread 
fully  Cornish  habit  fishers  have  of  standing  together. 
If  you  offend  John  Penelles  or  wrong  him  in  the 
least,  you  offend  and  wrong  every  man  in  St.  Penfer 
fishing  quarter.  Do  not  snap  your  fingers  so  scorn 
fully,  Roland;  you  would  be  no  match  for  a  banded 
enmity  like  that." 

"All  this  about  Denas?" 

"Yes;  all  this  about  Denas.  The  girl  is  a  vain 
little  thing,  but  I  do  not  want  to  see  her  breaking 
her  heart  about  your  handsome  face." 

She  drew  the  handsome  face  down  to  her  lips  and 
kissed  it;  and  Roland  used  every  charm  he  possessed 
in  order  to  deepen  his  influence  over  his  going-to- 
be-rich  sister.  He  was  already  making  plain  and 
straight  his  paths  for  a  certain  supremacy  at  Burrell 
Court.  He  was  already  feeling  that  a  good  deal  of 
Robert  Burrell 's  money  would  come,  through  Eliza- 


40  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

beth's  hands,  into  his  pocket.  That  would  be  a  per 
fectly  legitimate  course  for  it  to  take.  Why  should 
not  a  loving  sister  help  a  loving  brother? 

And  oh,  the  pity  of  it!  While  brother  and  sister 
talked  only  of  themselves,  Robert  Burrell  sat  silent 
and  happy  in  his  study,  planning  magnificent  gener 
osities  for  his  bride;  thinking  of  her  youth,  of  her 
innocence,  her  ignorance  of  fashionable  society,  of 
her  affection  for  and  her  loyalty  to  her  father  and 
brother,  and  loving  her  with  all  his  great  honest 
heart  for  these  very  things.  And  Denas  lay  dream 
ing  of  Roland.  And  Roland,  even  while  he  was  talk 
ing  with  Elizabeth  about  Burrell  Court,  was  holding 
fast  to  his  intention  to  degrade  Denas.  For  the 
singing,  dancing,  fiddling  life  which  he  was  to  lead 
with  her  suited  his  tastes  exactly;  he  felt  it  would 
be  the  absolutely  necessary  alterative  to  the 
wealthy  decorum  of  Burrell  Court. 

O  Love!  what  cruelties  are  done  in  thy  name! 
We  think  of  thee  as  coming  with  a  rose,  and  a  song, 
and  a  smile.  Nay,  but  the  Calydonian  Maidens 
were  right  when  they  cried  bitterly :  "  Death  should 
have  risen  with  Love,  and  Grief,  and  visible  Fear; 
and  there  should  have  been  heard  a  voice  of  lamenta 
tion  and  mourning,  as  of  many  in  prison."  * 

*  "Atalanta  in  Calydon." 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE    COTTAGE    BY    THE    SEA. 

"O  blessed  sounds  of  wiser  life 

Contented  with  its  day, 
How  ye  rebuke  the  inner  strife 
That  wears  the  soul  away." 

"The  Eden  we  live  in  is  our  own  heart, 
And  the  first  thing  we  do  of  our  free  choice 
Is  sure  to  be  sin." 

— FESTUS. 

JOHN    PENELLES    was    one    of    those    strong 
religious  characters  whose  minds  no  questions 
disturb,   whose   spiritual   aspirations  are  never 
put  out  of  breath.      He  had  not  yet  been  a  yoke 
fellow  with  sorrow.      Hard  work,  the  cruelty  of  the 
elements,  the  self-denials  of  poverty,   these  things 
he   had   known;  but  love  had  never    smitten  him 
across  the  heart. 

When  he  rose  that  Easter  Sunday  he  rose  sing 
ing.  He  sang  as  he  put  on  his  chapel  broadcloth; 
he  was  trying  over  the  different  metres  and  the  Eas 
ter  anthem  as  he  walked  about  the  sanded  floor  of 
his  cottage,  and  thought  over  the  heads  of  his  ser 
mon.  For  he  was  to  preach  that  night  in  the  little 
chapel  of  St.  Swer,  a  fishing  hamlet  four  miles  to 
the  northward;  indeed,  John  preached  very  often, 

41 


42  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

being  a  local  preacher  in  the  circuit  of  St.  Penfer, 
and  rather  famous  for  his  ready,  short  sermons,  full 
of  the  breath  of  the  sea  and  of  the  savour  of  the 
fisher's  life  upon  it. 

Denas  had  gone  to  a  neighbouring  farm  for  milk. 
He  heard  her  quick  step  on  the  shingle,  and  he 
stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  to  meet  her. 
She  had  on  a  short  dress  of  pink  calico  and  a  square 
of  blue-and-white-plaided  flannel  thrown  over  her 
head.  She  came  in  like  the  breath  of  the  spring 
Sabbath.  Her  face  was  rosy,  her  lovely  lips  slightly 
apart,  her  blue  eyes  dewy  and  soft  and  bright  and 
brimming  with  love.  She  lifted  her  face  to  her 
father's  face,  and  he  forgot  in  a  moment  all  his 
fears.  He  saw  only  Denas,  and  not  any  of  her 
faults;  if  she  had  faults,  he  buried  them  that  moment 
in  his  love,  and  they  were  all  put  out  of  memory. 

Roland  and  the  Treshams  were  not  spoken  of. 
John  and  Joan  both  had  the  fisher's  dislike  to  name 
a  person  or  a  thing  they  considered  unlucky  or 
unpleasant.  "If  you  name  evil  you  do  call  evil" 
was  their  simple  creed;  and  it  saved  many  a  house 
hold  worry.  They  sat  down  to  their  breakfast  of 
tea,  and  fresh  fish,  and  white  loaf,  and  the  wide- 
open  door  let  in  the  sea  wind,  and  the  sea  smell,  and 
the  soft  murmur  of  the  turning  tide.  John's  heart 
was  full  of  holy  joy;  he  could  feel  it  singing: 
"  Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul !"  And  though  he  was 
only  a  poor  Cornish  fisher,  he  was  sure  that  the 
world  was  a  very  good  world  and  that  life  was  well 
worth  the  living. 

"Joan,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "the  Bible  do  tell   us 


THE   COTTAGE  BY    THE   SEA.  43 

that  there  shall  be  a  new  earth.  Can  it  be  a  sweeter 
one  than  this  is?" 

"Aw,  John,  it  may  be  a  sight  better,  for  we  be 
promised  'there  shall  be  no  sea  there,'  thank  God! 
no  freezing,  drowning  men  and  no  weeping  wives. 
I  do  think  of  that  when  you  are  out  in  the  frost  and 
storm,  John,  and  the  thought  be  heaven  itself." 

"  My  dear,  the  sea  be  God's  own  highway.  There 
be  wonders  by  the  sea.  Was  not  St.  John  sent  to 
the  sea-side  for  the  Revelations?  'Twas  there  he 
heard  the  angels,  whose  voices  were  like  the  sound 
of  many  waters.  Heaven  will  be  wonderful!  won 
derful  !  if  it  do  make  us  forget  the  sea.  Aw,  my  dear 
Joan,  'twill  be  something  added  to  this  earth,  not 
something  taken  away,  and  the  good  thing  added 
will  make  both  the  sea  and  the  'bounds  of  the  ever 
lasting  hills  '  to  be  blessed." 

"John,  who  told  you  that?  And  if  the  cruel, 
hungry,  awful  sea  is  not  to  be  taken  away,  nor  yet 
the  'everlasting  hills,'  what  will  make  it  a  new 
earth  ?" 

"  God's  tabernacle  will  be  in  it.  Aw,  my  dear, 
that  will  make  everything  new — sea  and  land,  men 
and  women;  and  then  there  will  be  no  more  tears. 
My  dear,  when  I  think  of  that  I  love  this  old  world, 
not  only  for  what  it  is,  but  also  for  what  it  is  going 
to  be." 

"  Father,  you  are  preaching  and  not  eating  your 
breakfast;  and  I  want  to  get  breakfast  over  and 
the  cups  washed,  for  I  have  to  dress  myself  yet, 
and  a  new  dress  to  put  on,  too,"  and  Denas  smiled 
and  nodded  and  touched  her  father's  big  hand  with 


44  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

her  small  one,  and  then  John  smiled  back,  and  with 
a  mighty  purpose  began  to  eat  his  fish  and  bread 
and  drink  his  tea. 

The  whole  day  took  its  colour  from  this  happy 
beginning.  In  after-years  John  often  spoke  of  that 
Easter  Sabbath;  of  their  quiet  walk  all  together  up 
the  cliff  to  St.  Penfer  Chapel;  of  the  singing,  and 
the  sermon,  and  the  Sunday-school  in  the  afternoon 
for  the  fisher  children;  of  the  walk  to  St.  Swer  with 
Denas  by  his  side  and  the  walk  back,  singing  all 
the  way  home;  of  the  nice  supper  ready  for  them, 
and  how  they  had  eaten  and  talked  till  the  late  moon 
made  a  band  of  light  across  the  table,  and  John 
said  hurriedly: 

"Well,  there  now!  The  tide  will  be  calling  me 
before  I  do  have  time  to  get  sleep  in  my  eyes." 

Then  Joan  rose  quickly  and  Denas  began  to  put 
away  the  bread  and  cheese  and  milk,  and  though 
none  recognised  the  fact  at  the  time,  the  old  life 
passed  away  for  ever  when  the  three  rose  from  that 
midnight  supper. 

Yet  for  several  days  afterward  nothing  seemed 
to  be  changed.  John  went  to  his  fishing  and  had 
unusual  good  fortune;  and  Joan  and  Denas  were 
busy  mending  nets  and  watching  the  spring  bleach 
ing.  It  was  the  duty  of  Denas  to  take  the  house 
linen  to  some  level  grassy  spot  on  the  cliff-breast 
and  water  and  watch  it  whiten  in  the  sunshine. 
Monday  she  had  gone  to  this  duty  with  a  vague  hope 
that  Roland  would  seek  her  out.  She  watched  all 
day  for  him.  She  knew  that  she  was  looking  pretty, 
and  she  felt  that  her  employment  was  picturesque. 


THE  COTTAGE  BY   THE  SEA.  45 

As  she  stood  over  the  breadths  of  damask,  with 
the  water-can  making  mimic  rain  upon  them,  she  was 
well  aware  that  all  her  surroundings  added  charm 
to  her  charm.  The  soft  winds  blowing  her  hair  and 
her  pink  skirt;  the  green  leaves  whispering  above 
and  around  her;  the  rippling  of  the  brook  running 
down  the  hillside — all  these  things  belonged  as 
much  to  her  as  the  frame  belongs  to  the  picture. 
Why  did  not  Roland  come  to  see  her  thus?  Was  he 
afraid  for  the  words  he  had  said  to  her  ?  Were  they 
not  true  words?  Did  he  intend,  by  ignoring  them, 
to  teach  her  that  he  had  only  been  playing  with  her 
vanity  and  her  credulity? 

Tuesday  was  too  wet  and  blowy  to  spread  the 
linen,  and  Denas  felt  the  morning  insufferably  long 
and  tedious.  Her  father,  who  had  been  on  the  sea 
all  night,  dozed  in  his  big  chair  on  the  hearthstone. 
Joan  was  silent,  and  went  about  her  duties  in  a  tip 
toeing  way  that  was  very  fretful  to  the  impatience 
of  Denas.  Denas  herself  was  knitting  a  guernsey, 
and  as  she  sat  counting  the  stitches  Tristram  Pen- 
rose  came  to  the  door  and,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
spoke  to  her.  He  was  a  fine  young  fellow  with  an 
open-air  look  on  his  brown  face  and  an  open-love 
look  in  his  brown  eyes. 

"  My  dear  Denas,"  he  said,  "  is  your  father  in?" 

"Tris,  who  gave  you  license  to  call  me  dear?  and 
my  father  is  asleep  by  the  fireside." 

"  Aw,  then,  the  One  who  gave  me  license  to  live 
gave  me  the  license  to  love;  and  dear  you  be  and 
dear  you  always  will  be  to  Tris  Penrose.  The 
word  may  be  shut  in  my  heart  or  I  may  say  it  in 


46  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

your  ear,  Denas;  'tis  all  the  same;  dear  you  be  and 
dear  you  always  will  be." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  petulantly,  and  yet 
could  not  resist  the  merry  up-glance  which  she 
knew  went  straight  to  the  big  fellow's  heart.  Then 
she  began  to  fold  up  her  knitting.  While  Tris  was 
talking  to  her  father,  she  would  ask  for  permission 
to  go  and  see  Elizabeth.  While  Tris  was  present, 
she  did  not  think  he  would  refuse  her  request,  for  if 
he  did  so  she  could  ask  him  for  reasons  and  he 
would  not  like  to  give  them. 

Denas  had  all  the  natural  diplomacy  of  a  clever 
woman,  and  she  knew  the  power  of  a  fond  word 
and  a  sunny  smile.  "  Father" — is  there  any  fonder 
word  ? — "  Father,  I  want  to  go  and  see  Miss  Tresharh. 
She  told  me  a  very  important  secret  on  Saturday, 
and  I  know  she  was  expecting  me  yesterday  to  talk 
it  over  with  her;"  then  she  went  close  to  his  side 
and  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  snuggled  her 
cheek  in  his  big  beard,  and  called  poor  Tris'  soul 
into  his  face  for  the  very  joy  of  watching  her. 

John  was  not  insensible  to  her  charming.  He 
hesitated,  and  Denas  felt  the  hesitation  and  met  it 
with  a  bribe:  "You  could  come  up  the  cliff  to  meet 
me  before  you  go  to  the  boats — couldn't  you,  father  ?" 

"Nay,  my  dear,  I'll  not  need  to  look  for  you  on 
the  cliff,  for  you  will  stay  at  home,  Denas ;  it  rains — 
it  blows." 

"  Miss  Tresham  was  expecting  me  all  through  yes 
terday,  but  it  was  so  fine  I  took  the  linen  to  bleach. 
She  will  be  so  disappointed  if  I  do  not  come  to-day. 
We  have  a  secret,  father — a  very  particular  secret." 


THE   COTTAGE  BY    THE  SEA.  47 

It  was  hard  to  resist  the  pretty,  pleading,  coaxing 
girl,  but  John  had  a  strength  of  will  which  Denas 
had  never  before  put  to  the  test. 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  answered,  "if  Miss  Tresham 
be  longing  to  talk  her  secrets  to  you,  she  can  come 
to  you.  There  be  nothing  in  the  world  to  hinder 
her.  Here  be  a  free  welcome  to  her." 

"I  promised,  father." 

"  'Tis  a  pity  you  did." 

"I  must  go,  father." 

"  You  must  stay  at  home.  'Twould  be  like  put 
ting  my  girl  through  the  fire  to  Baal  to  send  her 
into  the  company  there  be  now  at  Mr.  Tresham's. " 

"  I  care  nothing  for  the  company.  I  want  to  see 
Miss  Tresham." 

"  Now,  then,  I  am  in  earnest,  Denas.  You  shall 
not  go.  Take  your  knitting  and  sit  down  to  your 
own  work." 

She  lifted  her  knitting,  but  she  did  not  lift  a 
stitch.  Where  there  is  no  positive  compulsion  the 
hand  is  only  handmaid  to  the  heart,  and  it  does  the 
work  only  which  the  heart  wishes.  At  this  hour 
Denas  hated  her  knitting,  and  there  being  no  neces 
sity  on  her  to  perform  it,  her  hands  lay  idle  upon 
her  lap.  After  a  few  minutes'  conversation  John 
went  out  with  Tris  Penrose,  and  then  Denas  began 
to  cry  with  anger  and  disappointment. 

"  My  father  has  insulted  me  before  Tris  Penrose," 
she  said,  "and  I  will  never  speak  to  Tris  again. 
Many  a  time  and  oft  he  has  let  me  go  to  St.  Penfer 
when  it  was  raining  and  blowing.  He  is  very  cross, 
cruel  cross!  Mother,  you  give  me  leave — do!  I 


48  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

will  tell  you  a  secret.  Elizabeth  is  going  to  be  mar 
ried,  and  she  wants  me  to  help  in  getting  her  things 
ready.  Mother,  let  me  go;  it  is  cruel  hard  to  refuse 
me!" 

The  news  of  an  approaching  marriage  can  never 
be  heard  by  any  woman  with  indifference.  Joan 
stayed  her  needle  and  looked  at  Denas  with  an 
eager  curiosity. 

"  'Tis  to  the  rector,  I'll  warrant,  Denas,"  she 
said. 

"No,  it  is  not;  but  the  rector  is  fine  and  angry, 
I  can  tell  you.  It  was  too  much  for  him  to  speak 
to  Miss  Tresham  on  Saturday  afternoon  at  the 
church.  But  won't  he  be  sorry  for  his  disknowledg- 
ing  her  when  he  knows  who  is  to  be  the  bride 
groom?  He  will,  and  no  mistake." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Denas.  Who  is  going 
to  marry  Miss  Tresham?  Say  the  man's  name,  and 
be  done  with  it." 

"  'Tis  a  great  secret,  mother;  but  if  you  will  let 
me  go  to  St.  Penfer  I  will  tell  you." 

"Aw,  my  dear,  I  can  live  without  Miss  Tresham's 
secrets.  And  I  do  know  she  can't  be  having  one  I 
would  go  against  your  father  to  hear  tell  of,  not  I." 

"  Father  is  unjust  and  unkind.  What  have  I  done, 
mother?" 

"Your  father  is  afraid  of  that  young  jackanapes, 
Roland  Tresham,  and  good  reason,  too,  if  all  be 
true  that  is  said  to  be  true." 

"Mr.  Roland  is  a  gentleman." 

"  Gentleman  and  gentleman — there  be  many  kinds, 
and  no  kind  at  all  for  you.  You  be  a  fisher's 


THE   COTTAGE  BY    THE   SEA.  49 

daughter,  and  you  must  choose  a  husband  of  your 
own  sort — none  better,  thank  God !  The  robin  would 
go  to  the  eagle's  nest,  and  a  poor  sad  time  it  had 
there.  Gentlemen  marry  gentlemen's  daughters, 
Denas,  and  if  they  don't,  all  sides  do  be  sorry 
enough." 

"Am  I  to  go  no  more  to  Miss  Tresham's?" 
"  Not  until  the  young  man  is  back  in  London." 
"Then  I  wish  he  would  hurry  all  and  be  off." 
"  So  do  I,  my  dear.      I  would  be  glad  to  hear  that 
he  was  far  away  from  St.  Penfer. " 

Joan  rose  with  these  words  and  went  out  of  the 
room,  and  Denas  knew  that  for  this  day  also  there 
was  no  hope  of  seeing  Roland.  Her  heart  was  hot 
with  anger,  and  she  began  to  lay  some  of  the  blame 
upon  her  lover.  He  was  a  man.  He  could  have 
braved  the  storm.  And  there  was  no  open  quarrel 
between  her  father  and  himself;  it  would  have  been 
easy  enough  to  make  an  excuse  for  calling.  Eliza 
beth  might  have  written  a  letter  to  her.  Roland 
might  have  brought  it.  Sitting  there,  she  could 
think  of  half-a-dozen  things  which  Roland  might 
have  accomplished.  How  long  the  hours  were.' 
How  would  she  ever  get  the  days  over  ?  Her  mother 
singing  in  the  curing-shed  made  her  angry.  The 
ticking  of  the  big  clock  accentuated  her  nervous 
irritability,  and  when  John  returned  silent  and  with 
that  air  about  him  which  indicated  the  master  of 
the  house,  Denas  felt  surely  that  all  was  over  for 
the  present  between  her  and  Roland  Tresham. 

The  night  became  blustery  after  John  and  the  men 
had  gone  to  the  fishing,  and  by  midnight  there  was 
4 


50  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

a  storm.  Joan's  white,  anxious  face  was  peering 
through  the  windows  or  out  of  the  open  door  into 
the  black  night  continually.  And  the  presence  of 
Denas  did  not  comfort  her,  as  it  usually  did;  the 
mother  felt  that  her  child's  thoughts  were  with 
strangers,  and  not  with  her  father  out  on  the  stormy 
sea. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  next  morning  before  John  got 
home.  He  had  made  a  little  harbour  some  miles 
off,  and  glad  to  make  it,  and  had  been  compelled 
to  lay  there  until  daybreak.  He  was  weary  and 
silent.  He  said  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  him 
had  not  Tris  been  at  his  right  hand.  Then  he 
looked  anxiously  at  Denas,  and  when  she  did  not 
give  him  a  smile  or  a  word,  he  sat  down  by  the  fire 
much  depressed  and  exhausted.  For  he  saw  that 
his  child  had  a  hard,  angry  heart  toward  him,  and 
he  felt  how  useless  it  was  to  try  and  explain  or 
justify  his  dealings  with  her. 

It  was  now  Wednesday,  and  Denas  burned  with 
shame  when  she  thought  how  readily  she  had  lis 
tened  to  so  careless  a  lover.  No  word  of  any  kind 
came  from  Elizabeth,  who  indeed  was  not  to  blame 
under  the  circumstances.  Mr.  Burrell  was  much 
with  her;  they  had  a  hundred  delightful  arrange 
ments  to  make  about  their  marriage  and  their  future 
housekeeping.  And  if  in  these  days  Elizabeth  was 
a  little  proud  and  important  and  very  much  inter 
ested  in  her  own  affairs,  she  was  innocently  so.  She 
was  only  exhibiting  the  natural  parade  of  a  lovely 
bud  spreading  itself  into  a  perfect  flower. 

She  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  being  unkind 


THE   COTTAGE  BY    THE  SEA.  51 

to  Denas;  indeed,  she  looked  forward  to  many  pleas 
ant  hours  with  her  and  to  her  assistance  in  all  the 
preparations  for  her  marriage.  And  Roland  had  in 
troduced  the  subject  quite  as  frequently  as  he  felt 
it  to  be  prudent.  Finally  Elizabeth  had  plainly 
told  him  that  she  did  not  intend  to  have  Denas 
with  her  until  he  returned  to  London.  "I  see  you 
so  seldom,  Roland,"  she  said,  "  and  we  will  not  have 
any  stranger  intermeddling  when  you  are  at  home. " 

"  Come,  Elizabeth,"  he  answered,  "  you  are  putting 
up  your  disapprovals  in  the  shape  of  compliments. 
My  dear,  you  are  afraid  I  will  fall  in  love  with 
Denas." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  make  love  to  her,  which  is 
a  very  different  thing." 

"  Do  you  want  Denas  here?" 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  have  her  here.  I  have  a  great 
deal  of  sewing  to  do,  and  she  is  a  perfect  and  rapid 
needlewoman." 

"  Then  go  to-morrow  and  ask  her  to  come.  I  am 
off  to  London  to-night.  In  this  world  no  one  has 
pleasure  but  he  who  gives  himself  some.  You  were 
my  only  pleasure  at  St.  Penfer,  and  I  do  not  care  to 
share  your  society  with  Robert  Burrell." 

"  I  will  go  and  see  Denas.  I  must  ask  her  parents 
to  let  her  stay  with  me  until  my  marriage." 

But  as  Denas  did  not  know  of  this  intention,  that 
weary  Wednesday  dragged  itself  away  amid  rain 
and  storm  and  household  dissatisfaction;  but  by 
Thursday  morning  the  elements  had  blustered  their 
passion  away  and  the  world  was  clear-skied  and 
sunshiny.  Not  so  Denas;  she  sat  in  a  dark  corner 


52  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

of  the  room,  cross  and  silent,  and  answering  her 
father  and  mother  only  in  monosyllables.  John's 
heart  was  greatly  troubled  by  her  attitude.  He 
stood  leaning  against  the  lintel  of  the  door,  watch 
ing  his  boat  rocking  upon  the  tide,  for  he  was  think 
ing  that  until  Denas  and  he  were  "  in"  again  he  had 
better  stop  at  home. 

"I  do  leave  my  heart  at  home,  and  then  I  do  lose 
my  head  at  sea;"  and  with  this  unsatisfactory 
thought  John  turned  to  his  daughter  and  said  soft 
ly:  "Denas,  my  dear,  'tis  a  bright  day.  Will  you 
have  a  walk  ?  But  there — here  be  Miss  Tresham,  I 
do  know  it  is  her." 

Denas  rose  quickly  and  looked  a  moment  at  the 
tall,  handsome  girl  picking  her  way  across  the  pebbly 
path.  Then  she  threw  down  her  knitting  and  went 
to  meet  her,  and  Elizabeth  was  pleased  and  flattered 
by  her  protegee's  complaints  and  welcomes.  "  I 
thought  you  would  never  send  me  a  message  or  a 
letter,"  almost  sobbed  Denas.  "  I  never  hoped  you 
would  come.  O  Elizabeth,  how  I  have  longed  to 
see  you!  Life  is  so  stupid  when  I  cannot  come  to 
your  house." 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  ?" 
"  Father  was  afraid  of  your  brother." 
"  He  was  right,  Denas.      Roland  is  too  gay  and 
thoughtless  a  young  man  to  be  about  a  pretty  girl 
like  you.      But  he  has  gone  to  London,  and  I  do  not 
think  he  will  come  back  here  until   near  the  wed 
ding-day." 

•  Then  they  were  at  the  door,  and  John  Penelles 
welcomed  the   lady  with  all  the  native  grace  that 


THE   COTTAGE  BY    THE   SEA.  53 

springs  from  a  kind  heart  and  from  noble  instincts 
which  have  become  principles.  "You  be  right  wel 
come,  Miss  Tresham,"  he  said.  "  My  little  maid  has 
fret  more  than  she  should  have  done  for  you.  I  do 
say  that." 

"  I  also  missed  Denas  very  much.  I  have  no 
sister,  Mr.  Penelles,  and  Denas  has  been  something 
like  one  to  me.  I  am  come  to  ask  you  if  she  may 
stay  with  me  until  my  marriage  in  June.  No  one 
can  sew  like  Denas,  and  now  I  can  afford  to  pay  her 
a  good  deal  of  money  for  her  work — for  her  love 
I  give  her  love.  No  gold  pays  for  love,  does  it, 
sir?" 

John  was  pleased  with  her  frankness.  He  knew 
the  value  of  money,  he  knew  also  the  moral  value 
of  letting  Denas  earn  money.  He  answered  with  a 
candour  which  brushed  away  all  pretences: 

"We  be  all  obliged  to  you,  Miss  Tresham.  We 
be  all  glad  that  Denas  should  make  money  so 
happily.  It  will  help  her  own  wedding  and  furnish 
ing,  whenever  God  do  send  her  a  good  man  to  love 
her.  It  be  a  great  honour  to  Denas  to  have  your 
love,  but  there  then!  your  brother  is  a  fine,  hand 
some  young  man,  and — no  offence,  miss — it  would 
not  be  a  great  honour  for  my  little  maid  to  have  his 
love  or  the  likelihood  of  it — and  out  of  temptation 
is  out  of  danger,  miss,  and  if  so  be  I  do  speak  plain 
and  bluff,  you  will  not  put  it  down  against  me,  I'll 
warrant." 

"I  think,  Mr.  Penelles,  that  you  are  quite  right. 
I  have  felt  all  you  say  for  two  years,  and  have 
shielded  the  honour  and  the  happiness  of  Denas  as 


54  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

if  she  was  in  very  deed  my   sister.     Can  you  not 
trust  her  with  me  now?" 
_  "  'Tis  a  great  charge,  miss." 

"  I  am  glad  to  take  it.  I  will  keep  it  for  you 
faithfully." 

"  'Tis  too  much  to  ask,  miss;  'twould  be  a  con 
stant  charge,  for  wrong-doing  is  often  a  matter  of  a 
few  moments,  though  the  repentance  for  it  may  last 
a  lifetime." 

"  Roland  is  in  London.  He  went  yesterday.  I 
do  not  expect  him  to  come  to  St.  Penfer  again  until 
the  wedding.  I  assure  you  of  this,  Mr.  Penelles. " 

"  Then  your  word  for  it,  Miss  Tresham.  Take 
my  little  maid  with  you.  She  be  my  life,  miss.  If 
Denas  was  hurt  any  way  'twould  be  like  I  got  a 
shot  in  my  backbone;  'twould  be  as  bad  for  her 
mother,  likewise  for  poor  Tris  Penrose. " 

Elizabeth  smiled.  "  I  am  glad  to  hear  there  is  a 
lover;  Denas  never  told  me  of  him.  Is  he  good 
and  brave,  and  handsome  and  young,  and  well- 
to-do?" 

"Hebe  all  these,  and  more  too;  for  he  do  love 
the  ground  Denas  treads  on — he  do  for  sure." 

Denas  was  in  her  room  putting  on  her  blue  merino 
and  her  hat,  and  while  she  made  her  small  arrange 
ments  and  talked  to  her  mother,  Elizabeth  set  her 
self  to  win  the  entire  confidence  of  John  Penelles. 
It  was  not  a  hard  thing  to  do.  Evil  and  sin  had  to 
be  present  and  palpable  for  John's  honest  heart  to 
realize  them.  And  Miss  Tresham's  open  face,  her 
frank  assurances,  her  straightforward  understanding 
of  the  position  were  a  pledge  John  never  doubted. 


THE   COTTAGE  BY    THE   SEA,  55 

Certainly  Elizabeth  meant  all  she  promised.  She 
was  as  desirous  to  prevent  any  love-making  as  John 
Penelles  was.  And  when  interest  and  conscience  are 
in  the  same  mind,  people  do  at  least  try  to  keep 
their  promises.  Denas  went  gaylyback  with  her  to 
St.  Penfer.  It  was  something  to  be  in  Roland's 
home;  she  would  hear  him  spoken  of,  and  she  would 
exchange  the  monotonous  common  duties  of  her  own 
home  for  the  happy  bustle  and  the  festive  prepara 
tions  of  a  house  where  a  fine  wedding  was  to  be  cele 
brated. 

Her  expectations  in  this  respect  were  more  than 
gratified.  Every  hour  of  the  day  brought  some 
thing  to  discuss,  to  exclaim  over,  to  wonder  about, 
to  select,  to  try  on.  Notes  and  flowers,  and  sweet 
meats,  and  presents  of  all  kinds  were  continually 
reminding  Elizabeth  of  her  lover;  and  she  grew 
beautiful  and  generous  in  the  sunshine  of  such  a  mag 
nificent  love.  Thursday,  Friday,  and  Saturday  passed 
like  a  happy  dream.  On  Saturday  evening  Denas 
was  to  return  home  until  after  the  Sabbath.  For 
Saturday  night  and  Sunday  were  John's  holiday, 
and  a  poor  one  indeed  it  would  be  to  him  without 
his  daughter.  Nor  was  Denas  averse  to  go  home. 
She  looked  forward  to  the  pleasure  of  telling  her 
mother  everything  she  had  seen  and  done;  she 
looked  forward  to  going  to  chapel  with  her  father, 
and  showing  a  pretty  hat  and  collar  and  a  pair  of 
kid  gloves  which  Elizabeth  had  given  her. 

About  five  o'clock  she  started  down  the  cliff. 
Her  heart  was  light  in  spite  of  Roland's  silence. 
Indeed,  she  had  begun  to  feel  a  contempt  for  him 


56  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

and  greater  contempt  for  herself  because  she  had  for 
a  moment  believed  in  a  man  so  light  of  love  and 
so  false  of  heart.  Elizabeth's  affairs  were  full  of 
interest  to  her.  Elizabeth  had  been  so  sisterly  and 
kind.  She  had  paid  her  well  and  promised  her 
many  things  that  made  life  seem  full  of  hope  to  the 
ambitious  fisher-girl.  How  the  birds  did  sing! 
How  still  the  green  glades  were!  In  that  one  week 
of  rain  and  sunshine,  how  the  leaves  had  grown! 

She  went  gayly  forward,  humming  softly  to  her 
self — none  of  the  songs  Roland  sang  with  her,  but  a 
little  love-song  Elizabeth  had  learned  from  Robert 
Burrell.  Her  foot  had  that  spring  to  its  lift  and 
fall  that  shows  there  is  a  young  innocent  heart 
above  it.  In  and  out  among  the  glades  she  went, 
almost  as  brightly  and  musically  as  the  brook 
whose  sparkling  and  darkling  course  she  followed. 
When  but  a  few  hundred  yards  down  the  path, 
someone  called  her.  She  thought  it  was  a  fancy 
and  went  onward,  nevertheless  feeling  a  sudden 
silence  and  trouble.  Immediately  she  heard  foot 
steps  and  the  rustling  swish  of  parting  leaves  and 
branches. 

Then  she  stood  still  and  looked  toward  the 
place  of  disturbance.  A  moment  afterward  Roland 
Tresham  was  at  her  side.  He  took  her  hand;  he 
said  softly,  "This  way,  darling!"  and  before  she 
could  make  the  slightest  resistance  he  had  drawn 
her  into  a  little  glade  shut  in  by  large  boulders  and 
lofty  trees.  Then  he  had  his  arms  around  her,  and 
was  laughing  and  talking  a  thousand  sweet,  unrea 
sonable  things. 


THE  COTTAGE  BY   THE  SEA.  57 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Tresham,  let  me  go!  Let  me  go!"  cried 
Denas. 

"  Not  while  you  say  '  Mr.  Tresham. '  " 

"Oh,  Roland!" 

"Yes,  love,  Roland.  Say  it  a  thousand  times. 
Did  you  think  I  had  forgotten  you  ?" 

"You  were  very  cruel." 

"Cruel  to  be  kind,  Denas.  My  love!  they  think 
I  am  in  London.  Everyone  thinks  so.  I  did  go  to 
London  last  Wednesday.  I  left  London  this  morn 
ing  very  early.  I  got  off  the  train  at  St.  Claire  and 
walked  across  the  cliff,  and  found  out  this  pretty 
hiding-place.  And  I  am  going  to  be  here  every 
Saturday  night — every  Saturday  night,  wet  or  fine, 
and  if  you  do  not  come  here  to  see  me,  I  will  go  to 
Australia  and  never  see  St.  Penfer  again." 

He  would  talk  nothing  but  the  most  extravagant 
nonsense,  and  finally  Denas  believed  him.  He  gave 
her  a  ring  that  looked  very  like  Elizabeth's  betrothal 
ring,  and  was  even  larger  than  Elizabeth's,  and  he 
told  her  to  wear  it  in  her  breast  until  she  could 
wear  it  on  her  hand.  And  for  this  night,  and  for 
many  other  Saturday  nights,  he  never  named  the  plot 
in  his  shallow  head  and  selfish  heart;  he  devoted 
himself  to  winning  completely  the  girl's  absorbing 
love — not  a  very  difficult  thing  to  do,  for  the  air  of  ro 
mance  and  mystery,  at  once  so  charming  and  so  dan 
gerous,  enthralled  her  fancy;  his  eager,  masterful, 
caressing  wooing  made  her  tremble  with  a  delicious 
fear  and  hope;  and  in  the  week's  silence  and  dream 
ing,  the  folly  of  every  meeting  grew  marvellously. 

Nor  was  the  loving,   ignorant  girl  unaffected  by 


58  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

the  apparently  rich  gifts  her  lover  brought  her — 
brooch  and  locket  and  bracelet,  many  bright  and 
sparkling  ornaments,  which  poor  Denas  hid  away 
with  joy  and  almost  childish  delight  and  pride- 
ful  expectations.  And  if  her  conscience  troubled 
her,  she  assured  it  that  "  if  it  was  right  for  Eliza 
beth  to  receive  such  offerings  of  affection,  it  could 
not  be  wrong  for  her  to  do  likewise." 

Alas!  alas!  She  did  not  remember  that  the  ele 
ment  of  secrecy  made  the  element  of  sin.  If  she 
had  only  entertained  this  thought,  it  would  have 
made  her  understand  that  the  meeting  which  can 
not  be  known  and  the  gift  which  cannot  be  shown 
are  wicked  in  their  essence  and  their  influence,  and 
are  incapable  of  bringing  forth  anything  but  sorrow 
and  sin. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    SEED    OF    CHANGE. 

"I  love  thee  !  I  love  thee  ! 

'Tis  all  that  I  can   say; — 
It  is  my  vision  in  the  night, 
My  dreaming  in  the  day." 

— HOOD. 

"Ah,  if  the  selfish  knew  how  much  they  lost, 
What  would  they  not  endeavour,  not  endure, 
To  imitate  as  far  as  in  them  lay 
Him  who  His  wisdom  and  His  power  employs 
In  making  others  happy." 

— COWPER. 

ALL  fashionable  wedding  ceremonies  are  similar 
in  kind  and  effect,  and  Elizabeth  would  not 
have  been  satisfied  if  hers  had  varied  greatly  from 
the  highest  normal  standard.  Her  dress  was  of  the 
most  exquisite  ivory-white  satin  and  Honiton  lace. 
Her  bridesmaids  wore  the  orthodox  pink  and  blue 
of  palest  shades.  There  was  the  usual  elaborate 
breakfast;  the  cake  and  favours,  the  flowers  and 
music,  and  the  finely  dressed  company  filling  the 
old  rooms  with  subdued  laughter  and  conversation. 
All  things  were  managed  with  that  consummate 
taste  and  order  which  money  without  stint  can 
always  command;  and  Elizabeth  felt  that  she  had 
inaugurated  a  standard  of  perfection  which  cast  all 

59 


60  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

previous  affairs  into  oblivion,  and  demanded  too 
much  for  any  future  one  to  easily  attain  unto. 

In  the  arrangements  for  this  completely  satisfac 
tory  function,  the  position  which  Denas  was  to 
occupy  caused  some  discussion.  Mr.  Tresham  had 
hitherto  regarded  her  with  an  indifference  which 
sometimes  assumed  a  character  of  irritability.  He 
was  occasionally  jealous  of  his  daughter's  liking  for 
the  girl;  he  knew  men,  and  he  was  always  suspicious 
of  her  influence  on  his  son  Roland.  Proud  and 
touchy  about  his  own  social  position,  he  never  for 
got  that  Denas  was  the  child  of  poor  fisher  people, 
and  he  could  not  understand  the  tolerant  affection 
Elizabeth  gave  to  a  girl  so  far  beneath  her  own 
standing. 

When  Elizabeth  included  her  in  the  list  of  brides 
maids,  he  disputed  the  choice  with  considerable 
temper.  He  said  that  he  had  long  endured  a 
companionship  not  at  all  to  his  taste,  because  it 
gave  Elizabeth  pleasure;  but  that  on  no  account 
would  he  compel  his  guests  to  receive  Denas  as 
their  equal.  His  opposition  was  so  determined 
that  Elizabeth  gave  up  her  intention,  though  she 
had  to  break  an  oft-repeated  promise.  But,  then, 
promises  must  be  dependent  on  circumstances  for 
their  redemption,  and  all  the  circumstances  were 
against  Denas. 

"Mr.  Burrell  has  two  sisters,"  said  Elizabeth  to 
her,  "  and  if  I  do  not  ask  Cousin  Flora  I  shall 
never  be  forgiven;  and  father  insists  upon  Georgia 
Godolphin,  because  of  his  friendship  with  Squire 
Gpdolphin;  and  I  cannot  manage  more  than  four 


THE  SEED   OF  CHANGE.  61 

bridesmaids,  can  I?  So  you  see,  Denas,"  etc., 
etc.,  etc. 

Denas  saw  quite  clearly,  and  with  a  certain  pride 
of  self-respect  she  relegated  herself  to  a  position 
that  would  interfere  with  no  one's  claims  and 
offend  no  one's  social  ideas. 

"  I  am  to  be  your  real  bridesmaid,  Elizabeth,"  she 
said.  "  Miss  Burrells,  and  your  cousin  Flora,  and 
Miss  Godolphin  are  for  show.  I  shall  be  really 
your  maid.  I  shall  lace  your  white  satin  boots,  and 
fasten  your  white  satin  dress,  and  drape  the  lace, 
and  clasp  the  gems,  and  make  your  bride-bouquet. 
I  shall  stay  upstairs  while  you  are  at  church  and 
lay  ready  your  travelling  costume  and  see  that 
Adele  packs  your  trunks  properly;  and  when  you  go 
away  I  shall  fasten  your  cloak,  and  tie  your  bonnet, 
and  button  your  gloves,  and  then  go  away  myself; 
for  there  will  be  no  one  here  then  that  likes  me  and 
nothing  at  all  for  me  to  do." 

And  this  programme,  made  with  a  little  heartache 
and  sense  of  love's  failure,  Denas  faithfully  carried 
out.  It  cost  her  something  to  do  it,  but  she  did 
not  permit  Elizabeth  to  see  that  she  counted  her 
faithless  in  her  heart.  For  she  did  not  blame  her 
friend;  she  understood  the  force  of  the  reasons  not 
given — Mr.  Tresham's  latent  dislike,  her  humble 
birth,  her  want  of  fine  clothes  and  fine  polish  and 
rich  connections — and  she  felt  keenly  enough  that 
there  was  nothing  about  her,  personally  or  socially, 
to  make  Mr.  Tresham's  guests  desire  her. 

And  when  the  day  drew  near  and  they  began  to 
arrive,  Denas  shrank  more  and  more  from  their 


62  A    SINGER  FROM    THE   SEA. 

society.  She  saw  that  Elizabeth's  manner  with 
them  was  quite  different  from  her  manner  to  herself, 
and  in  spite  of  much  kindness  and  generosity  she 
felt  humiliated,  alone,  outside,  and  apart.  She 
wondered  why  it  was.  These  rich  girls  came  in 
little  companies  to  Elizabeth's  room,  and  with  soft 
laughter  and  exclamations  of  delight  examined  the 
bride's  pretty  garments  and  presents.  They  were 
never  haughty  with  her;  on  the  contrary,  they  were 
exceedingly  pleasant.  They  called  her  "  Miss 
Denas "  and  carefully  avoided  anything  like  con 
descension  in  their  intercourse.  Yet  Denas  knew 
that  between  them  and  herself  there  was  a  line  im 
palpable  as  the  equator  and  just  as  potent  in  its 
dividing  power. 

It  saddened  her  beyond  reason,  and  when  Roland 
arrived  two  days  before  the  wedding  and  she  saw 
him  wandering  in  the  garden,  riding,  driving,  playing 
tennis,  chatting  and  chaffing,  singing  and  dancing 
with  these  four  girls  of  his  own  circle,  she  divined 
a  difference,  which  she  could  not  explain  but  which 
pained  and  angered  her. 

Still,  that  last  week  of  Elizabeth's  maiden  life  was 
a  wonderful  week.  It  was  like  living  in  the  scenes 
of  a  theatre — there  was  no  talk  but  of  love.  All 
that  everyone  said  or  did  referred  to  the  great  pas 
sion.  The  house  was  in  the  hands  of  decorators; 
the  aroma  of  all  kinds  of  delicious  things  to  eat  was 
in  the  air.  There  was  a  constant  tinkling  of  the 
piano  and  harp.  Snatches  of  song,  ripples  of 
laughter,  young  voices  calling  through  the  house 
and  garden,  light  footsteps  going  everywhere,  the 


THE   SEED   OF  CHANGE.  63 

flutter  of  pink  and  blue  and  white  dresses,  the  snowy 
ribbons  and  massed  roses  in  every  room,  the  excit 
ing  atmosphere  of  love  and  expectation — who  could 
escape  it?  And  who,  when  in  the  midst  of  it,  was 
able  to  prevent  or  to  deny  its  influence? 

Denas  gave  herself  freely  to  the  moment.  The 
presence  of  Roland  made  all  things  easy  to  her. 
He  contrived  many  an  unseen  meeting;  her  lips 
never  lost  the  sense  of  his  stolen  kisses;  her  hands 
were  constantly  pink  with  the  passing  clasp  or  the 
momentary  pressure.  No  one  could  have  supposed 
he  was  planning  anything,  for  he  was  continually 
with  someone  or  with  all  of  the  four  bridesmaids; 
yet  there  was  not  an  hour  in  which  he  did  not  man 
age  to  give  Denas  her  part,  though  it  were  but  an 
upward  glance  at  the  open  window  where  she  sat 
sewing,  or  a  kiss  flung  backward  to  her;  or  a  lifted 
hat,  or  a  rose  left  where  she  alone  could  find  it;  or 
a  little  love-letter  crushed  into  her  hand  in  passing. 

Such  a  week  to  stir  a  young  heart  to  love's  sweet 
fever!  It  passed  like  a  dream,  and  went  finally 
with  the  clashing  of  wedding-bells  and  the  tramp 
ling  of  horses  carrying  away  the  bride.  Then  the 
guests  followed  one  by  one  until  the  house  was 
lonely  and  deserted;  and  the  servants  began  to 
remove  the  remnants  of  the  feast  and  to  take  down 
the  fading  wreaths  and  roses. 

Mr.  Tresham  took  Roland  with  him  to  Burrell 
Court.  He  seemed  determined  to  keep  his  son  by 
his  side,  and  the  drive  to  Burrell  was  an  effectual 
way.  No  one  thought  of  Denas.  She  had  now  no 
place  nor  office  in  the  house.  But  she  remained 


64  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

until  near  sundown,  for  she  trusted  that  Roland 
would  find  out  a  way  to  meet  her  at  their  usual 
trysting-place.  And  just  when  she  had  given  him 
up  he  came.  Then  he  told  her  that  he  was  going 
to  London  in  the  morning,  because  his  father  had 
suddenly  resolved  upon  a  short  pleasure-trip,  and 
he  had  promised  to  go  with  him  as  far  as  Paris. 
But  he  had  provided  for  their  correspondence. 

"There  is  a  man  in  St.  Clair  called  Pyn,  a  boat 
man  living  in  the  first  cottage  you  come  to,  Denas, " 
he  said.  "  I  have  given  him  money,  and  my  letters 
to  you  will  go  to  him.  Can  you  walk  to  St.  Clair 
for  them?"  It  was  a  foolish  question;  Roland  knew 
that  Denas  would  walk  twenty  miles  for  a  letter 
from  him.  He  then  gave  her  some  addressed  envel 
opes  in  which  to  enclose  her  letters  to  him.  "  Pyn 
will  post  them,"  he  said,  "and  the  handwriting  will 
deceive  everyone.  And  I  shall  come  back  to  you, 
Denas,  as  soon  as  I  can  get  away  from  my  father; 
and  Pyn  will  bring  a  message  to  St.  Penfer  and  let 
you  know,  in  some  way,  when  I  get  home." 

These  particulars  being  fully  arranged  and  under 
stood,  he  talked  to  her  of  her  own  loveliness.  He 
told  her  she  was  more  beautiful  in  her  plain  white 
frock  than  the  bride  in  her  bride-robes.  He  said 
all  that  lovers  have  said  from  the  beginning  of  time; 
all  that  lovers  will  say  until  time  ends.  Denas 
believed  him,  believed  every  word,  for  the  nature 
of  true  love  is  to  be  without  doubt  or  fear.  And 
Roland  thought  he  loved  her  quite  well  enough  for 
their  future  life  together.  If  she  was  to  become  a 
public  singer,  it  would  not  be  wise  for  him  to  have 


THE  SEED   OF  CHANGE.  65 

too  exclusive  and  jealous  affection  for  her.  Roland 
had  always  been  prudent  for  himself;  he  thought  of 
everything  which  might  affect  his  own  happiness. 
This  night,  however,  he  gave  up  all  for  love.  He 
kept  Denas  by  his  side  until  the  gloaming  was  quite 
gone,  and  then  he  walked  with  her  down  to  the  very 
shingle.  They  parted  with  tears  and  kisses  and 
murmured  protestations  of  fidelity.  And  Denas 
watched  her  lover  until  he  reached  the  first  bend  in 
the  upward  path.  There  he  turned,  and  she  stretched 
out  her  arms  to  him,  and  Roland  lifted  his  hat  and 
kissed  his  hand,  and  then  vanished  among  the  thick 
trees. 

The  moon  was  just  rising.  She  made  the  air  sil 
ver,  and  Denas  could  see  the  fishing-boats  on  the 
horizon  swimming  in  her  quivering  beams.  She 
knew,  then,  that  her  father  was  at  sea.  As  she 
approached  the  cottage  she  saw  her  mother  sitting 
on  the  door-step.  Her  arms  were  folded  across  her 
knees,  she  stooped  forward,  she  had  an  air  of  dis 
content  or  anxiety.  There  was  also  a  dumb  feeling 
of  resentment  in  her  heart,  though  she  did  not 
actually  know  that  there  was  reason  for  it.  She 
tried  to  meet  her  child  pleasantly,  but  could  not, 
and  she  was  almost  angry  at  the  stubborn  indiffer 
ence  which  she  was  unable  to  conquer. 

"You  be  long  in  getting  home,  Denas.  Father 
went  to  sea  quite  put  out.  Jane  Serlo  says  the 
bride  did  go  away  at  two  o'clock.  Well,  then,  it  be 
long  after  nine  now,  Denas!" 

"  I  had  a  lot  to  do  after  Mrs.  Burrell  left,  mother — 
things  she  would  not  trust  anyone  else  to  look  to." 
5 


66  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

"  Hum-m !  'Tis  no  good  way,  to  take  such  charge. 
Who  knows  what  she  may  be  saying  after-times?  I 
do  feel  glad  she  be  married  at  last,  and  done  with. 
Mayhap  we  may  see  a  bit  of  comfort  ourselves  now." 

"  She  gave  me  twenty  pounds  before  she  left, 
mother." 

"There  be  things  twenty  pound  can't  buy  nor  pay 
for;  I  tell  you  that,  Denas.  And  to  see  your  father 
go  off  with  the  boat  to-night,  without  heart  in  him 
and  only  care  for  company!  I  do  not  feel  to  like 
it,  Denas.  If  your  lover  be  dear  to  you,  so  be  my 
old  husband  tome." 

"What  lover  are  you  talking  about,  mother?" 

"  The  lover  that  kept  you  on  the  cliff-breast — 
Roland  Tresham,  he  be  the  lover  I  mean." 

"Who  told  you  I  was  with  Roland?" 

"I  know  that  you  were  not  at  Mr.  Tresham's,  for 
one  called  there  to  put  you  safely  home." 

"  I  suppose  Tris  Penrose  has  been  spying  me  and 
telling  tales  to  father  and  you." 

"  There  be  no  need  for  Tris  nor  for  anyone  else 
to  speak.  Say  to  me,  plain  and  straight,  that  you 
were  not  with  Roland  Tresham  to-night.  Say  that 
to  me,  if  you  dare." 

"  I  have  had  such  a  happy  day,  mother,  and  now 
you  have  taken  all  the  pleasure  out  of  it — a  mean 
thing  to  do!  I  say  that." 

"Your  father  and  I  had  a  happy  day,  thinking  of 
your  happiness.  And  then  to  please  that  bad  young 
man,  who  is  not  of  your  kind  and  not  of  your  kin, 
you  do  stay  out  till  bad  birds  and  night  creatures 
are  prowling;  till  the  dew  be  wetting  you;  till  you 


THE  SEED   OF  CHANGE.  67 

have  sent  your  father  off  to  the  deep  sea  with  a 
heart  heavy  enough  to  sink  his  boat — a  mean  thing 
that  to  do!  Yes!  yes!  cruel  mean  thing!" 

"  Mrs.  Burrell  gave  me  twenty  pounds.  I  had  to 
do  something  to  earn  it." 

"My  faith!  I'd  fling  the  twenty  pound  to  the 
fishes.  Aw,  then,  'tis  a  poor  price  for  my  girl's 
love,  and  her  innocent  heart,  and  the  proud  content 
she  once  had  in  her  own  folk.  Only  fishers!  but 
God's  folk,  for  all  that!  But  there!  What  be  the 
use  of  talking?  After  Mr.  Tresham's  flim-flams, 
my  words  be  only  muddling  folly." 

"I  am  going  to  bed,  mother." 

"To  be  sure.      Go  your  ways. " 

Then  Joan  also  rose,  and  went  to  the  fireside,  and 
drew  the  few  coals  together,  and  lit  a  lamp.  For 
a  moment  she  stood  still,  looking  at  the  closed  door 
between  her  and  her  child;  then  she  lifted  a  large 
book  from  the  window-sill,  laid  it  on  the  small 
round  table,  opened  it  wide,  and  sat  down  befors 
it.  It  was  a  homely,  workaday-looking  book,  and 
she  did  not  read  a  word  of  it,  though  her  eyes  were 
upon  the  page.  But  it  was  the  Bible.  And  the 
Bible  is  like  the  sunshine,  it  comforts  and  cheers 
us  only  to  sit  down  in  its  presence. 

And  very  soon  Joan  lifted  her  hand  and  laid  it 
across  the  open  page.  It  was  like  taking  the  hand 
of  a  friend.  God  knows  what  strength,  what  virtue, 
there  was  in  that  movement!  For  she  immediately 
covered  her  face  with  her  other  hand  and  tears 
began  to  fall,  and  anon  mighty  whispered  words 
parted  her  lips — words  that  went  from  the  mother's 


68  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

heart  to  the  heart  of  God!  How  can  such  prayer 
ever  fail  ? 

In  the  morning  John  Penelles  met  his  daughter, 
not  with  the  petulant  anger  of  a  wounded  woman, 
but  with  a  graver  and  more  reasonable  reproof. 
"Denas,  my  dear,"  he  said,  and  he  gently  stroked 
her  hair  as  he  spoke,  "  Denas,  you  didn't  do  right 
yesterday;  did  you  now?  But  you  do  be  sorry  for 
it,  I  see;  so  let  the  trouble  go.  But  no  more  of 
it!  No  more  out  in  the  dark,  my  girl,  either  for 
bride-making  or  for  corpse-waking,  and  as  for  the 
man  who  kept  you  out,  let  him  ask  God  to  keep  him 
from  under  my  hand.  That  is  all  about  it.  Come 
and  give  father  his  tea,  and  then  we  will  mend  the 
nets  together;  and  if  Saturday  be  fair,  Denas,  we 
will  go  to  St.  Merryn  and  see  your  Aunt  Agnes. 
'You  don't  want  to  go?'  Aw,  yes,  my  dear,  you  do 
want  to  go.  You  be  vexed  now;  and  not  you  that 
should  be  vexed  at  all,  but  your  mother  and  I. 
There,  then!  No  more  of  it!" 

He  spoke  the  last  words  as  if  he  was  at  the  end  of 
his  patience,  and  then  turned  sharply  toward  the 
broiled  fish  and  hot  tea  which  Joan  was  placing  on 
the  table.  The  face  of  Denas  angered  him,  it  was 
so  indifferent  and  so  wretched.  He  could  have 
laughed  away  a  little  temper  and  excused  it,  for  he 
was  not  an  unjust  nor  even  an  unsympathetic  man; 
and  he  realized  his  daughter's  youth  and  her  natural 
craving  for  those  things  which  youth  considers 
desirable. 

But  the  utter  hopelessness  of  her  attitude,  her 
refusal  to  eat,  her  silence,  her  sighs,  the  unsuitable- 


THE   SEED    OF  CHANGE,  69 

ness  of  the  dress  she  wore  to  the  humble  duties  of 
her  station,  her  disinclination  to  talk  of  what 
troubled  her,  or  indeed  to  talk  at  all — both  John 
and  Joan  felt  these  things  to  be  a  wrong,  deliberate 
and  perpetual,  against  their  love  and  their  home 
and  their  daily  happiness. 

It  was  certainly  a  great  and  sudden  change  in  the 
life  of  Denas.  For  the  past  eight  weeks  she  had 
been  in  an  atmosphere  of  excitement,  tinctured  with 
the  subtle  hopes  and  expectations  of  love.  In  it 
she  had  grown  mentally  far  beyond  the  realization 
of  her  friends.  She  had  observed,  assimilated,  and 
translated  her  new  ideas  through  her  own  personal 
ity  as  far  as  her  means  permitted.  If  her  mother 
and  father  had  looked  carefully  at  their  daughter, 
they  would  have  seen  how  much  more  effectively 
her  hair  was  arranged;  what  piquancy  of  mode  had 
been  observed  in  the  making  of  her  new  dresses ;  what 
careful  pride  had  dictated  the  fashion  and  fit  of  her 
high-heeled  shoes;  what  trouble  was  systematically 
taken  to  preserve  her  delicate  skin  and  to  restore 
the  natural  beauty  of  her  hands — in  short,  they  must 
have  noticed  that  their  child's  toilet  and  general 
appearance  was  being  gradually  but  still  rapidly 
removed  from  all  fitness  with  her  present  surround 
ings. 

And  just  after  Elizabeth's  marriage  came  on  the 
hardest  and  most  distinctive  part  of  the  fisher's  year. 
All  along  the  rocky  coast  the  "  huers"  were  stand 
ing  watching  for  the  shoals  of  pilchard,  and  the  men 
were  in  the  boats  beneath,  waiting  for  their  signal 
to  shoot  the  seines.  Every  fisher  had  now,  in  an 


70  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

intense  degree,  the  look  which  always  distinguishes 
him — the  look  of  a  man  accustomed  to  reflect  and 
to  be  ready  for  emergencies.  This  year  the  shoals 
were  so  large  that  boat-loads  were  caught  easily  in 
fifty  feet  of  water. 

Then  every  wife  in  the  hamlet  had  her  hands  full 
and  busy  from  dawn  till  dark;  and  Joan  went  to 
the  work  with  an  exuberant  alacrity  and  good  na 
ture.  In  former  years  Denas  had  felt  all  the  enthu 
siasm  of  the  great  sea  harvest.  This  year  she  could 
not  endure  its  clamour  and  its  labour.  What  had 
happened  to  her  that  the  sight  of  the  beautiful  fish 
was  offensive  and  the  smell  of  its  curing  intoler 
able?  She  shut  her  eyes  from  the  silvery  heaps  and 
would  gladly  have  closed  her  ears  against  the  jubi 
lant  mirth,  the  shouting  and  laughing  and  singing 
around  her. 

Her  intense  repugnance  did  really  at  last  breed 
in  her  a  low  fever,  which  she  almost  gladly  suc 
cumbed  to.  She  thought  it  easier  to  lie  in  bed  and 
suffer  in  solitude  than  to  put  her  arms  to  her  white 
elbows  in  fresh  fish  and  bear  the  familiar  jokes  of  the 
busy,  merry  workers  in  the  curing-sheds.  Denas 
was  not  really  responsible  for  this  change.  It  had 
grown  into  her  nature,  day  by  day  and  week  by 
week,  while  she  was  unconscious  of  any  transform 
ing  power.  The  little  reluctances  which  had  marked 
its  first  appearance  had  been  of  small  note;  her 
father  and  mother  had  only  laughingly  reproved 
them,  telling  her  "not  to  nourish  prideful  notions." 
She  had  not  even  been  aware  of  nourishing  anything 
wrong.  Was  it  wrong  ?  She  lay  tossing  on  her  bed 


THE   SEED    OF  CHANGE.  71 

in  the  small  warm  room,  and  argued  the  question 
out  while  fever  burned  in  her  veins  and  gave  to  all 
things  abnormal  and  extravagant  aspects. 

She  was  really  ill,  and  she  almost  wished  she 
could  be  more  ill.  No  one  quite  believed  she  was 
suffering  much.  The  headache  and  languor  inci 
dent  to  her  condition  did  not  win  much  sympathy 
until  their  ravages  became  apparent.  Then  Joan 
honestly  believed  that  a  little  exercise  in  the  fresh 
salt  air  would  have  cured,  perhaps  even  prevented, 
the  illness.  So  that  at  this  time  Denas  thought 
herself  very  unkindly  used. 

This  apparent  lack  of  interest  in  her  condition 
added  greatly  to  that  dissatisfaction  with  her  life 
which  she  now  constantly  dwelt  upon.  She  felt  that 
she  must  do  something  to  escape  from  an  existence 
which  repelled  her;  and  yet  what  could  she  do? 
Somehow  she  had  suddenly  lost  faith  in  Elizabeth. 
Elizabeth  changed  before  she  went  away;  who  could 
say  how  much  greater  the  change  would  be  when 
she  returned  after  four  months'  travel  ? 

Denas  at  this  time  pitied  herself  greatly,  and  tak 
ing  women  as  they  are,  and  not  as  they  ought  to  be, 
she  deserved  some  pity.  For  though  it  may  not  be 
a  lofty  ambition  to  long  after  a  finely  appointed 
house,  and  delicate  food  delicately  served,  and 
elegant  clothing  and  refined  society,  and,  with  all 
and  above  all,  a  lover  who  fits  into  such  externals, 
yet  Denas  did  long  for  these  things;  and  the  circum 
stances  of  her  own  life  were  common,  and  vulgar, 
and  hateful  to  her. 

True,   she  had  her  father  and  mother,  and  she 


72  A    SINGER    FROM   THE  SEA. 

loved  them  dearly;  but,  then,  she  could  undoubtedly 
love  them  quite  as  well  if  she  were  rich,  while  they 
would  not  love  her  any  the  less.  As  for  Tris  Pen- 
rose  and  his  tiresome  devotion,  what  was  Tris  to 
Roland  ?  Tris  did  not  even  know  how  to  woo  her. 
He  never  told  her  how  beautiful  she  was,  and  how 
he  adored  her,  and  longed  for  her,  and  thought  all 
women  wearisome  but  her.  He  never  kissed  her 
hands  and  her  hair,  her  cheeks  and  her  lips,  as 
Roland  did.  He  never  said  to  her,  "You  are  fit  to 
be  a  duchess  or  a  queen;  you  sing  like  a  nightingale 
and  charm  my  soul  out  of  me,  and  you  have  hands 
and  feet  like  a  fairy."  Poor  Tris!  He  was  stupid 
and  silent.  He  could  only  look  and  sigh,  or,  if  he 
did  manage  to  speak,  he  was  sure  to  plunge  into 
such  final  questions  as,  "  Denas,  will  you  marry  me? 
When  will  you  marry  me?"  Or  to  tell  her  of  his 
stone  cottage,  and  his  fine  boat,  and  the  money  he 
had  in  the  St.  Merryn's  Savings  Bank. 

For  three  weeks  this  silent  conflict  went  on  in  the 
mind  and  heart  of  Denas,  an  unsatisfactory  fight  in 
which  no  victory  was  gained.  At  the  end  she  was 
no  more  mistress  of  her  inclinations  than  at  the 
beginning,  and  her  returning  health  only  intensified 
her  longings  for  the  things  she  had  not.  One  morn 
ing  she  awoke  with  the  conviction  that  there  was  a 
letter  for  her  at  St.  Clair.  She  determined  to  go 
and  see.  She  said  to  her  mother  that  she  felt  almost 
well  and  would  try  to  take  a  walk.  And  Joan  was 
glad  and  encouraged  the  idea. 

"Go  down  to  the  sea-shore,  Denas,  and  breathe 
the  living  air;  do,  my  sweetheart!" 


THE  SEED   OF  CHANGE.  73 

"  No,  mother.  There  are  crowds  there  and  the 
smell  of  fish,  and — I  can't  help  it,  mother — it  turns 
me  sick ;  it  makes  me  feverish.  I  want  to  go  among 
the  trees  and  flowers." 

"Aw,  my  dear,  you  will  be  climbing  and  climb 
ing  up  to  St.  Penfer ;  and  you  be  weak  yet  and  not 
able  to." 

"I  will  not  climb  at  all.  I  will  walk  near  the 
shingle;  and  I  will  take  a  bit  of  bread  with  me 
and  a  drink  of  milk;  then  I  can  rest  all  day  on  the 
grass,  mother." 

"God  bless  you,  dear!  And  see  now,  come  home 
while  the  sun  is  warm — and  take  care  of  yourself, 
Denas." 

Then  Joan  went  to  the  curing-sheds.  She  had  a 
light  heart,  for  Denas  was  more  like  her  old  self, 
and  after  going  a  hundred  yards  she  turned  to  nod 
to  her  girl,  and  was  glad  that  she  was  watching  her 
and  that  she  waved  her  kerchief  in  reply.  Some 
thing  heavy  slipped  from  Joan's  heart  at  that  moment 
and  her  work  went  with  her  all  day  long. 

It  was  two  miles  to  St.  Clair,  but  Denas  walked 
there  very  rapidly.  She  remembered  that  Pyn's  cot 
tage  was  the  first  cottage ;  and  as  she  approached  it 
the  boatman  came  to  the  door.  He  looked  at  her 
with  a  grave  curiosity,  and  she  went  straight  up  to 
him  and  said:  "  Have  you  a  letter  for  me?" 

"  I  do  think  I  have.  You  be  John  Penelles'  little 
girl?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  knew  John  years  ago.  We  sat  in  the  same 
boat.  I  like  John — he  is  a  true  man.  Here  be  three 


74  A    SINGER    FROM   THE  SEA. 

letters.  At  first  I  thought  these  letters  be  going 
to  bring  a  deal  of  potter  and  bother — maybe  some 
thing  worse — and  I  will  put  them  in  the  fire.  Then 
I  thought,  they  bean't  your  letters,  Pyn,  and  if  you 
want  to  keep  yourself  out  of  a  mess,  never  interfere 
and  never  volunteer.  So  here  they  be.  But  if  you 
will  take  an  old  man's  advice,  I  do  say  to  you,  burn 
the  letters.  It  will  be  better  far  than  to  be  read 
ing  them." 

"Why  will  it  be  better?" 

"  There  be  letters  worse  than  death  drugs.  If 
you  do  buy  a  bottle  of  arsenic,  the  man  will  put  its 
character  on  the  bottle.  You  see  'poison  '  and  you 
be  warned.  But  young  men  do  write  poison,  and 
worse  than  poison,  to  young  women,  and  no  warning 
outside  the  letter.  It  isn't  fair,  now,  is  it?" 

"Why  did  you  take  charge  of  the  poison?" 

"To  be  sure!  Why  did  I?  Just  because  it  was 
for  John  Penelles'  little  girl,  and  I  thought  mayhap 
she'd  take  a  warning  from  me.  Don't  you  read 
them  letters,  my  dear.  If  you  do,  let  the  words  go 
in  at  one  ear  and  out  of  the  other.  Roland  Tresham ! 
he  be  nothing  to  trust  to!  Aw,  my  dear — a  leaky 
boat — a  boat  adrift;  no  man  at  the  helm;  no  helm 
to  man;  no  sail;  no  compass;  no  anchor;  no  any 
thing  for  a  woman  to  trust  to!  There,  then,  I  have 
had  my  say;  if  this  say  be  of  no  'count,  twould 
be  the  same  if  I  talked  my  tongue  away.  If  you 
come  again  and  there  be  any  letters,  you  will  find 
them  under  the  turned  boat — slip  your  hand  in — so. 
Dear  me!  You.be  fluttering  and  wuttering  like  a 
bird.  Poor  dear!  Step  into  my  boat  and  I'll  put 


THE  SEED   OF  CHANGE.  75 

you  back  home.  You  look  as  quailed  as  a  faded 
flower." 

Thus  Pyn  talked  as  he  helped  Denas  into  the  boat 
and  slowly  settled  himself  to  the  oars.  Afterward 
he  said  nothing,  but  he  looked  at  Denas  in  a  way 
that  troubled  her  and  made  her  thankful  to  escape 
his  silent,  pitiful  condemnation.  Her  mother  was 
still  absent  when  she  reached  the  cottage,  and  she 
was  so  weary  that  she  was  very  grateful  for  the  soli 
tude.  She  shut  her  eyes  for  a  few  minutes  and  col 
lected  her  strength,  and  then  opened  Roland's  letters. 

They  were  full  of  happiness — full  of  wonders — 
full  of  love.  He  was  going  to  Switzerland  with  his 
father.  Elizabeth  was  there,  and  Miss  Caroline 
Burrell,  and  a  great  many  people  whom  they  knew. 
But  for  him,  no  one  was  there.  "  Denas  was  all  he 
longed  for,  cared  for,  lived  for!"  Oh,  much  more 
of  the  same  kind,  for  Roland's  love  lay  at  the  point 
of  his  pen. 

And  he  told  her  also  that  he  had  heard  many 
singers,  many  famous  singers,  and  none  with  a 
voice  so  wildly  sweet,  so  enthralling  as  her  voice. 
"  If  you  were  only  on  the  stage,  Denas,"  he  wrote, 
"you  could  sing  the  world  to  your  feet;  you  could 
make  a  great  fortune ;  you  could  do  anything  you 
liked  to  do." 

The  words  entered  her  heart.  They  burned  along 
her  veins,  they  filled  her  imagination  with  a  thou 
sand  wild  dreams.  She  put  the  fatal  letters  safely 
away,  and  then,  stretching  her  weary  form  upon  her 
bed,  she  closed  her  eyes  and  began  to  think. 

Why    should  she  cure   fish,   and  mend  nets,  and 


76  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

clean  tables  and  tea-cups,  if  she  possessed  such  a 
marvellous  gift?  Why  should  her  father  go  fishing 
with  his  life  in  his  hand,  and  her  mother  work  hard 
from  dawn  to  "dark,  and  she  herself  want  all  the 
beautiful  things  her  soul  craved  ?  And  how  would 
Elizabeth  feel  ?  Perhaps  they  might  be  glad  enough 
yet  if  she  married  Roland.  And  as  the  possibility 
of  returning  social  slights  presented  itself,  she  re 
membered  many  a  debt  of  this  kind  it  would  be  a 
joy  to  satisfy.  And  then  Roland!  Roland!  Roland! 
He  had  always  believed  in  her;  always  loved  her. 
She  would  repay  his  trust  and  love  a  thousand-fold. 
What  a  joy  it  would  be! 

So  she  permitted  herself  to  grasp  impossibilities, 
to  possess  everything  she  desired.  Well,  in  this 
life,  what  mortals  know  is  but  very  little;  what 
they  imagine — ah,  that  is  everything! 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHAT  SHALL  BE  DONE  FOR  ROLAND? 

"When,  lulled  in  passion's  dream,  my  senses  slept, 

How  did  I  act  ? — E'en  as  a  wayward  child. 
I  smiled  with  pleasure  when  I  should  have  wept, 
And  wept  with  sorrow  when  I  should  have  smiled." 

— MONCRIEFF. 

"Love  not,  love  not  !     O  warning  vainly  said 
In  present  years,  as  in  the  years  gone  by; 
Love  flings  a  halo  round  the  dear  one's  head, 
Faultless,  immortal — till  they  change  or  die." 

— HON.  MRS.  NORTON. 

HOPE  has  a  long  reach,  and  yet  it  holds  fast. 
So,  though  Roland's  return  was  far  enough 
away,  Denas  possessed  it  in  anticipation.  The  be 
lief  that  he  would  come,  that  he  would  give  her 
sympathy  and  assistance,  helped  her  through  the 
long  sameness  of  uneventful  days  by  the  witching 
promise,  "Anon — anon!" 

There  was  little  to  vary  life  in  that  quiet  hamlet. 
The  pilchard  season  went,  as  it  had  come,  in  a 
day;  men  counted  their  gains  and  returned  to  their 
usual  life.  Denas  tried  to  accept  it  cheerfully;  she 
felt  that  it  would  soon  be  a  past  life,  and  this  con 
viction  helped  her  to  invest  it  with  some  of  that 

77 


78  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

tender  charm  which  clings  to  whatever  enters  the 
pathetic  realm  of  "Nevermore." 

Her  parents  were  singularly  kind  to  her,  and  John 
tried  to  give  a  little  excitement  to  her  life  by  coax 
ing  her  to  share  with  him  the  things  he  considered 
quite  stirring.  But  visits  to  her  aunt  at  St.  Merryn, 
and  Sunday  trips  to  hear  some  new  preacher,  and 
choir  practisings  with  Tris  dangling  after  them 
wherever  they  went,  were  not  interesting  to  the 
wayward  girl.  She  only  endured  them,  as  she  en 
dured  her  daily  duties  by  keeping  steadily  in  view 
the  hope  Roland  had  set  before  her.  However,  as 
she  sang  nearly  constantly,  Joan's  mind  was  easy; 
she  was  sure  Denas  could  not  be  very  discontented, 
for  it  never  entered  Joan's  thought  that  people 
could  sing  unless  there  was  melody  in  their  heart. 
And  undoubtedly  Denas  was  cheered  by  her  own 
music,  for  if  song  is  given  half  a  chance  it  has  the 
miraculous  power  of  turning  the  water  of  life  into 
wine. 

Only  two  more  letters  repaid  her  for  many  walks 
to  the  turned  boat,  and  she  did  not  see  Pyn  again. 
She  was  sure,  however,  that  he  k'new  of  her  visits 
and  wilfully  avoided  her.  The  last  of  these  letters 
contained  the  startling  intelligence  of  Mr.  Tre- 
sham's  death.  He  had  foolishly  insisted  upon  vis 
iting  Rome  in  the  unhealthy  season  and  had  fallen 
a  victim  to  fever.  Roland  wrote  in  a  very  de 
pressed  mood.  He  said  that  his  father's  death 
would  make  a  great  difference  to  him.  In  a  short 
time  the  news  arrived  by  the  regular  sources.  Law 
yer  Tremaine  had  been  advised  to  take  charge  of 


IV HA  T  SHALL  BE  DONE  FOR  ROLAND?    79 

Mr.  Tresham's  personal  estate,  and  the  newspaper 
of  the  district  had  a  long  obituary  of  the  deceased 
gentleman. 

John  said  very  little  on  the  subject.  He  had  not 
liked  Mr.  Tresham  while  living,  but  he  was  partic 
ularly  careful  to  avoid  speaking  ill  of  the  dead. 
He  said  only  that  he  had  heard  that  "the  effects  left 
would  barely  cover  outstanding  debts,  and  that  Mr. 
Tresham's  income  died  with  him.  'Tis  a  good 
thing  Miss  Tresham  be  well  married,"  he  added, 
"  else  'twould  have  been  whist  hard  times  for  her 
now." 

Denas  did  not  answer.  Her  sudden  and  appar 
ently  unreasonable  indifference  to  her  former  friend 
was  one  of  the  many  mental  changes  which  she  could 
not  account  for.  But  she  waited  impatiently  for 
some  word  about  Roland.  John  appeared  to  have 
nothing  to  say.  Joan  hesitated  with  the  question 
on  her  lips,  and  at  last  she  almost  threw  it  at  her 
husband. 

"  What  did  you  hear  about  young  Mr.  Tresham  ?" 

"  I  asked  no  questions  about  him.  People  do  say 
that  he  will  have  to  go  to  honest  work  now.  'Twill 
do  him  no  harm,  I'm  sure." 

"  Honest  work  will  be  nothing  strange  to  him, 
father.  He  has  been  in  a  great  many  offices.  I 
have  heard  Elizabeth  speaking  of  many  a  one." 

"I'll  warrant — many  a  one — and  he  never  stays 
in  any.  He  has  a  bad  temper  for  work." 

"Bad  temper!  That  is  not  true.  Mr.  Roland 
has  a  very  good  temper." 

"Good  temper!     To  be  sure,  after  a  fashion,  a 


8o  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

kind  of  Hy-to-everybody  fashion.  But  a  good  bus 
iness  temper,  Denas,  be  a  different  thing;  it  be 
steady,  patient,  civil,  quiet,  hard-to-work  temper, 
and  the  young  man  has  not  got  it.  No,  nor  the 
shadow  of  it.  If  he  was  worth  thousands  this  year 
he  wouldn't  have  a  farthing  next  year  unless  he  had 
a  guider  and  a  withholder  by  his  side  constantly." 

"  You  ought  not  to  speak  of  Mr.  Roland  at  all, 
father,  you  hate  him  that  badly." 

"  Right  you  be,  Denas.  I  ought  not  to  speak  of 
the  young  man.  I  will  let  him  alone.  And  I'll 
thank  every  one  in  my  house  to  do  the  same  thing." 

For  some  weeks  John's  orders  were  carefully  ob 
served.  Denas  got  no  more  letters,  and  the  sum 
mer  weather  became  autumn  weather;  and  then  the 
leaves  faded  and  began  to  fall,  and  the  equinoctial 
storm  set  the  seal  of  advancing  winter  on  the  cliff- 
breast.  Yet  through  all  these  changes  the  clock 
ticked  the  monotonous  days  surely  away,  and  one 
morning  when  Denas  was  standing  alone  in  the  cot 
tage  door  a  little  lad  slipped  up  and  put  a  letter 
into  her  hand. 

He  was  gone  in  a  moment,  and  Denas,  even  while 
answering  a  remark  of  her  mother's,  who  was  busy 
at  the  fireside,  hid  the  message  in  her  bosom.  Of 
course  it  was  from  Roland.  He  said  that  they  had 
all  returned  to  Burrell  Court  and  that  he  could  not 
rest  until  he  had  seen  her.  Wet  or  fine,  he  begged 
she  would  be  at  their  old  trysting-place  that  evening. 

Then  she  began  to  consider  how  this  was  to  be 
managed,  and  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that  a 
visit  to  St.  Penfer  was  the  best  way.  She  knew 


WHAT  SHALL  BE  DONE  FOR  ROLAND?    81 

well  how  to  prepare  for  it — the  little  helps,  and  con 
fidences,  and  personal  chatter  Joan  was  always 
pleased  and  flattered  by  were  the  wedge.  Then  as 
they  washed  the  dinner  dishes  and  tidied  the  house 
together,  Denas  said: 

"Mother,  it  is  going  to  storm  soon,  and  then 
whole  days  to  sit  and  sew  and  nothing  to  talk 
about.  Priscilla  Mohun  promised  me  some  pretty 
pieces  for  my  quilt,  and  Priscilla  always  knows 
everything  that  is  going  on.  What  do  you  think? 
Shall  I  go  there  this  afternoon?  I  could  get  the 
patches  and  hear  the  news  and  bring  back  a  story 
paper,  and  so  be  home  before  you  would  have  time 
to  miss  me." 

"Well,  my  dear,  we  do  feel  to  be  talked  out." 

"  Priscilla  will  tell  me  all  there  is  to  hear,  and  if 
I  get  the  patches,  a  few  days'  sewing  and  the  quilt 
will  be  ready  for  you  to  cross-stitch;  and  a  story 
paper  is  such  a  comfort  when  the  storm  is  beating 
you  back  to  house  every  hour  of  the  day." 

"You  say  right — it  be  a  great  comfort.  But  you 
will  have  to  be  busy  all,  for  it  is  like  enough  to 
rain  within  an  hour — the  tide  will  bring  it,  I'll 
warrant." 

"  I  will  wear  my  waterproof.  Mother,  dear,  I  do 
want  a  little  change  so  much — just  to  see  some  new 
faces  and  hear  tell  of  the  St.  Penfer  people." 

"Well,  then,  go  your  way,  Denas,  a  wetting  will 
do  you  no  harm ;  and  I  do  know  the  days  be  long 
days,  and  the  nights  do  never  seem  to  come  to  mid 
night  and  then  wear  to  cock-crow.  'Twould  be  a 
whist  poor  life,  my  dear,  if  this  life  were  all." 
6 


8a  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

Denas  was  now  very  anxious  to  get  off  before  her 
father  came  back  from  his  afternoon  gossip  at  the 
boats.  With  a  gay  heart  she  left  her  home  and 
hastened  to  St.  Penfer  to  execute  the  things  that 
had  been  her  ostensible  reason  for  the  visit.  As  it 
happened,  Priscilla  Mohun  was  full  of  news.  The 
first  thing  she  said  to  Denas  related  to  the  return  of 
the  Burrells,  and  then  followed  all  the  gossip  about 
the  treasures  they  had  brought  with  them  and 
changes  to  be  made  in  the  domestic  life  of  the 
Court. 

"  Mrs.  Burrell  be  going  to  turn  things  upside 
down,  I  can  tell  you,  Denas.  They  do  say  four 
new  servants  are  hired,  two  men  and  two  women ; 
and  the  horses  brought  down  are  past  talking  about, 
with  silver  trimmings  on  their  harness — that,  and 
no  less — and  carriages  of  all  kinds,  and  one  kind 
finer  than  the  other!  I  do  suppose  Mrs.  Burrell 's 
gowns  will  be  all  London  or  Paris  bought  now; 
though  to  be  sure  poor  Priscilla  did  make  her  wed 
ding-dress — but  there,  then!  what  be  the  use  of 
talking?" 

"  How  long  have  they  been  at  home  ?"  asked 
Denas. 

"La!  I  thought  if  anybody  knew  that  it  would 
be  you.  I  was  just  taking  a  walk  last  Wednesday, 
and  I  happened  to  see  them  driving  through  the 
town;  Mr.  Burrell  and  his  sister,  and  Mrs.  Burrell 
and  her  handsome  brother — how  happy  they  looked, 
and  everyone  lifting  their  hats  or  making  a  re 
spectful  move  to  them." 

Last   Wednesday!     and    it    was    now    Monday. 


WHA  T  SHALL  BE  DONE  FOR  ROLAND?  83 

Denas  was  dashed  by  the  news.  But  she  chattered 
away  about  everyone  they  knew,  and  got  her 
patches,  and  her  story  paper,  and  then,  just  as  the 
gloaming  was  losing  itself  in  the  fog  from  the  sea, 
she  started  down  the  cliff.  Roland  was  waiting  for 
her.  He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  with 
an  eager  and  delighted  affection;  and  though  the 
fog  had  changed  to  a  soft  rain,  neither  of  them  ap 
peared  to  be  uncomfortably  aware  of  the  fact. 
Denas  drew  the  hood  of  her  waterproof  over  her 
head  and  Roland  the  heavy  collar  of  his  coat  about 
his  ears,  and  they  sat  close  together  on  the  damp 
rock,  with  Roland's  umbrella  over  them. 

There  was  so  much  to  say  that  they  really  said 
nothing.  When  they  had  but  half  finished  repeat 
ing  "Sweet  Denas!"  and  "Dear  Roland!"  Denas 
had  to  go.  It  was  only  then  she  found  courage  to 
intimate,  in  a  half-frightened  way,  that  she  had  been 
thinking  and  wondering  about  her  voice,  and  if  she 
really  could  learn  to  sing.  Roland  flushed  with 
delight  to  find  the  seed  he  had  sown  with  so  much 
doubt  grown  up  to  strength  and  ripeness. 

"My  lovely  one!"  he  answered,  "you  must  go 
to  London  and  have  lessons;  and  I  will  take  care  of 
you.  I  will  see  that  you  have  justice  and  that  no 
one  hurts  you." 

"But  where  could  I  live?  And  how?  I  have 
one  hundred  pounds  of  my  own.  Will  that  be 
enough  ?" 

"You  little  capitalist!  How  did  you  get  a  hun 
dred  pounds?" 

"  Father  has  put  a  few  pounds   in  the  bank    at 


84  A    SINGER   FROM  THE  SEA. 

St.  Merryn  every  year  since  I  was  born  for  me, 
and  I  have  put  there  all  the  money  your  sister  paid 
me.  Father  said  it  was  to  furnish  my  home  when 
I  got  married,  but  I  would  rather  spend  it  on  my 
voice." 

"I  should  think  so.  Well,  Beauty,  you  are  to 
come  and  see  Elizabeth  off  Wednesday;  then  I  shall 
have  something  sweet  and  wonderful  to  say  to  you." 

"Will  Elizabeth  send  for  me?  That  would  make 
it  easy." 

"  I  do  not  think  Elizabeth  will  send  for  you.  I 
have  been  hoping  for  that.  She  has  not  named  you 
at  all.  For  my  sake,  come  to  the  Court  on  Wed 
nesday." 

"  It  is  a  long  way  to  walk,  but  for  your  sake  I 
will  come." 

Then  they  parted,  and  she  hastened  back  and 
reached  home  just  as  John  and  Joan  were  beginning 
to  be  uneasy  at  her  delay.  The  sight  of  her  happy 
face,  the  charming  little  fuss  she  made  about  her 
dripping  waterproof  and  her  wet  shoes,  the  perfectly 
winning  way  in  which  she  took  possession  of  her 
father's  knee  and  from  it  warmed  her  bare  rosy 
feet  at  the  blaze  scattered  all  shadows.  She  took 
their  fears  and  nascent  anger  by  storm;  she  exhib 
ited  her  many-coloured  bits  of  cloth,  and  showed 
John  the  pictures  in  the  story  paper,  and  coaxingly 
begged  her  mother  for  a  cup  of  tea,  because  she 
was  cold  and  hungry.  And  then,  as  Joan  made  the 
tea  and  the  toast,  Denas  related  all  that  Priscilla 
had  told  her.  And  Joan  wondered  and  exclaimed, 
and  John  listened  with  a  pleased  interest,  though  he 


WHAT  SHALL  BE  DONE  FOR  ROLAND?    85 

thought  it  right  to  say  a  word  about  speaking  ill 
of  people,  and  was  snubbed  by  Joan  for  doing  so. 

"Mrs.  Burrell  is  putting  on  grand  airs,  it  seems, 
so  then  it  will  go  that  people  of  course  will  speak 
ill  of  her,"  said  Joan. 

"Aw,  my  dear,"  answered  John,  "few  are  better 
spoken  of  than  they  deserve." 

"I  do  think  Denas  ought  to  call  on  the  bride," 
said  Joan.  "  It  would  only  be  friendly,  and  many 
will  make  a  talk  about  it  if  she  does  not  go." 

"  She  must  find  out,  first,  if  the  young  man  be  there. " 

"No,"  said  Denas  warmly,  "I  will  not  find  out. 
If  you  cannot  trust  your  little  maid,  father,  then 
do  not  let  her  go  at  all.  If  people  could  hear  you 
talk  they  would  say,  'What  a  bad  girl  John  Penelles 
has!  He  dare  not  let  her  go  to  see  her  friend  if 
there  be  a  young  man  in  the  house.'  "Pis  a  shame, 
isn't  it,  mother?" 

"  I  think  it  be,  Denas.  Father  isn't  so  cruel 
suspicious  as  that,  my  dear.  Are  you,  father?" 

And  what  could  John  answer?  Though  sorely 
against  his  feeling  and  his  judgment,  he  was  in 
duced  to  agree  that  Denas  ought  perhaps  to  call  once 
on  the  bride.  There  were  so  many  plausible  argu 
ments  in  favour  of  such  a  visit;  there  was  nothing 
but  shadowy  doubts  and  fears  against  it. 

"Go  to-morrow,  then,"  said  John,  a  little  im 
patiently;  "and  let  me  be  done  with  the  fret  of  it." 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow,  or  Wednesday, 
father.  To-morrow  it  will  be  still  raining,  no 
doubt,  and  I  have  something  to  alter  in  my  best 
dress.  I  want  to  look  as  fine  as  I  can,  father." 


86  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

"  Look  like  yourself  and  your  people,  Denas. 
That  be  the  best  finery.  If  roses  and  lilies  did  grow 
on  the  dusty  high-road,  they  would  not  be  as  fitly 
pretty  as  blue-bells  and  daisies.  I  do  think  that, 
Denas;  and  it  be  the  very  same  with  women.  Burrell 
Court  is  a  matter  of  two  miles  beyond  St.  Penfer; 
'tis  a  long  walk,  my  dear,  and  dress  for  the  walk  and 
the  weather.  Do,  my  dear!" 

Then  the  subject  was  changed,  and  Denas,  having 
won  her  way,  was  really  grateful  and  disposed  to 
make  the  evening  happy  for  all.  She  recollected 
many  a  little  bit  of  pleasantry;  she  mimicked  Pris- 
cilla  to  admiration,  merrily  and  without  ill-will, 
and  then  she  took  the  story  paper  and  read  a  thrill 
ing  account  of  some  great  shipwrecks  and  a  poem 
that  seemed  to  John  and  Joan's  simple  minds  "the 
sweetest  bit  of  word  music  that  could  be." 

At  the  same  hour  Elizabeth  and  Roland  were 
playing  an  identical  role  under  different  circum 
stances.  Roland  had  hoped  to  slip  away  to  his 
room  unobserved.  He  knew  Miss  Burrell  had  gone 
to  a  friend's  house  for  a  day  or  two,  and  he  thought 
Robert  and  Elizabeth  would  be  sufficiently  occupied 
with  each  other.  But  some  gentlemen  were  with 
Robert  on  parish  business,  and  Elizabeth  was  alone 
and  well  inclined  to  come  to  an  understanding  with 
her  brother. 

"Caroline  had  to  go  without  an  escort,  Roland. 
It  was  too  bad,"  she  said  reproachfully  as  she  stood 
in  the  open  door  of  a  parlour  and  waited  for  his  ap 
proach. 

"You  see  I  am  wet  through,  Elizabeth.     I  will 


WHAT  SHALL  BE  DONE  FOR  ROLAND?    87 

change  my  clothing  and  come  to  you.     Where  is 
Robert  ?" 

"With  the  churchwardens.  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
seriously.  We  shall  be  alone  for  an  hour.  Come 
as  soon  as  you  can." 

"In  five  minutes.  It  will  be  delightful  to  have 
you  all  to  myself  once  more." 

He  came  back  quickly  and  placed  his  chair  close 
to  hers,  and  lifted  her  face  to  his  face  and  kissed 
her,  saying  fondly,  "  My  dear  little  sister." 

"Where  have  you  been,  Roland?" 

"I  could  have  bet  on  the  words  'Where  have 
you  been?'  That  is  always  a  woman's  first  ques 
tion." 

"  Have  you  been  with  Denas?" 

"  I  have  been  at  the  Black  Lion  and  at  Tre- 
maine's.  We  will  suppose  that  I  wished  to  see 
Denas — is  this  pouring  rain  a  fit  condition?  Do 
think  of  something  more  likely,  Elizabeth." 

"Say  to  me  plainly:  'I  have  not  seen  Denas.'  " 

"  If  you  wish  me  to  say  the  words,  consider  that 
I  have  done  so.  Why  have  you  taken  a  dislike  to 
Denas?  You  used  to  be  very  fond  of  her." 

"  I  have  not  taken  any  dislike  to  the  girl.  I  have 
simply  passed  out  of  the  season  of  liking  her.  In 
the  early  spring  we  find  the  violet  charming,  but 
when  summer  comes  we  forget  the  violet  in  the 
rose  and  the  lily  and  the  garden  full  of  richer  flow 
ers.  The  time  for  Denas  has  passed — that  is  all, 
Roland.  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  Caroline? 
When  will  you  ask  her  to  marry  you?" 

"I  have  asked  her  twice  already;  once  in  Rome, 


88  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

when  she  put  me  off;  and  again  in  London,  when 
she  decidedly  refused  me." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"That  she  believed  she  could  trust  herself  to  my 
love,  because  she  did  not  think  I  would  be  unkind 
to  any  woman;  but  she  was  sure  she  could  not  trust 
me  with  her  fortune,  because  I  would  waste  it  with 
out  any  intention  of  being  wasteful.  Caroline  wants 
a  financier,  not  a  lover." 

"The  idea!" 

"She  talked  about  the  responsibilities  of  wealth." 

"  How  could  she  talk  to  you  in  that  way?" 

"She  did— really." 

"Then  Caroline  is  out  of  reckoning." 

"  Between  ourselves,  I  think  she  was  right, 
Elizabeth.  I  am  positive  I  should  spend  any  sum 
of  money.  What  I  need  is  a  wife  who  can  make 
money  week  by  week,  year  by  year — always  some 
thing  coming  in;  like  an  opera-singer,  for  instance. 
Do  you  understand  ?" 

"  Could  you  expect  me  to  understand  such  non 
sense?  I  asked  Robert  to-day  about  poor  father's 
estate.  He  thinks  there  may  be  four  or  five  hundred 
pounds  after  paying  all  debts.  Of  course  you  will 
receive  it  all.  Robert  is  very  kind,  but  I  can  see 
that  he  would  prefer  that  you  were  not  always  at 
the  Court." 

"I  daresay  he  put  Caroline  up  to  refuse  me." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  He  would  consider  it  a 
brotherly  duty;  and  to  tell  the  truth,  Roland,  I 
fear  you  would  give  any  woman  lots  of  heartache. 
I  cannot  tell  what  must  be  done.  You  have  had  so 


89 

many  good  business  chances,  and  yet  never  made 
anything  of  them." 

"That  is  true,  Elizabeth.  If  I  take  to  a  business, 
it  fails.  If  I  dream  of  some  fine  prospect,  the 
dream  does  not  come  true.  In  fact,  my  dear  sister, 

"  '  I  never  had  a  piece  of  toast 

Particularly  long  and  wide, 
But  it  fell  on  the  sanded  floor, 
And  always  on  the  buttered  side.' 

Still,  there  is  one  thing  I  can  do  when  all  else  fails: 
I  can  take  the  Queen's  shilling  and  go  in  for 
glory." 

"  Roland,  you  break  my  heart  with  your  folly. 
Why  will  you  not  be  reasonable?  How  could  I  ever 
show  my  face  if  you  were  a  common  soldier?  But 
the  army  is  a  good  thought.  Suppose  you  do  try 
the  army.  I  daresay  Robert  can  get  you  a  com 
mission — at  the  right  time,  of  course." 

"Thanks!  I  do  not  think  the  army  would  agree 
with  me;  not,  at  any  rate,  until  I  had  played  my  last 
card.  And  if  I  have  to  make  a  hero  of  myself,  I 
shall  certainly  prefer  the  position  of  a  full  private. 
It  is  the  privates  that  do  the  glory  business.  I 
would  join  the  army  as  Private  Smith;  for  though 

"  '  Some  talk  of  Alexander, 

And  some  of  Hercules, 
And  of  many  a  great  commander 

As  glorious  as  these; 
If  you  want  to  know  a  hero 

Of  genuine  pluck  and  pith, 
It's  perfectly  clear  that  none  come  near 

The  full  British  private  Smith.'  " 


90  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

And  he  declaimed  his  mock  heroics  so  delightfully 
that  Elizabeth  not  only  succumbed  to  his  charm,  but 
also  wondered  in  her  heart  why  everyone  else  did 
not. 

"  You  see,  sweet  sister,  that  wealth  is  not  exactly 
the  same  thing  as  shining  virtue,  or  else  Caroline 
would  have  been  generous.  I  am  sure  I  should  be 
particularly  grateful  to  any  woman  who  made  me 
rich." 

"Why  woman,  Roland?" 

"Well,  because  if  a  man  puts  any  money  in  my 
way  he  expects  me  to  work  for  it  and  with  it;  to 
invest  it  and  double  it;  to  give  an  account  of  it;  to 
sacrifice  myself  body  and  soul  for  it.  But  a  dear 
little  darling  woman  would  never  ask  me  questions 
and  never  worry  me  about  interest.  She  would  take 
love  and  kisses  as  full  value  received — unless  she 
was  a  girl  like  Caroline,  an  unwomanly,  mercenary, 
practical,  matter-of-money  creature." 

"  Do  not  talk  in  that  way  of  Caroline." 

"  I  am  talking  of  her  money,  and  it  is  no  im 
peachment  of  its  value  to  say  that  it  is  mortal  like 
herself.  Still,  I  am  ready  to  acknowledge 

"  '  How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money,  heigho  ! 
How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  money  ! ' 

and  as  much  of  it  as  possible,  Elizabeth." 

"We  come  to  no  definite  results  by  talking  in 
this  way,  Roland.  When  you  get  to  singing 
snatches  of  song  I  may  as  well  be  quiet.  And  yet 
I  am  so  unhappy  about  you.  O  Roland!  Roland! 
my  dear,  dear  brother,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 


WHAT  SHALL  BE  DONE  FOR  ROLAND?    91 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  Roland 
took  them  away  with  gentle  force.  "  Elizabeth,  do 
not  cry  for  me.  I  am  not  worth  a  tear.  Darling,  I 
will  do  anything  you  want  me  to  do." 

"  If  I  get  Robert  to  give  you  a  desk  in  the  bank  ?" 
"Well,  love,  anything  but  that.  I  really  can 
not  bear  the  confinement.  I  should  die  of  consump 
tion;  besides,  I  have  a  moral  weakness,  Elizabeth, 
that  I  am  bound  to  consider — there  are  times,  dear, 
when  I  get  awfully  mixed  and  cannot  help 

"  'Confounding  the  difference  'twixt  meum  and  tuum 
By  kindly  converting  it  all  into  suum.'  " 

"O  Roland,  I  really  do  not  know  what  you  are 
fit  for!" 

"  If  I  had  been  born  three  or  four  centuries  ago  I 
could  have  been  a  knight-errant  or  a  troubadour. 
But  alas!  in  these  days  the  knight-errants  go  to  the 
Stock  Exchange  and  the  troubadours  write  for  the 
newspapers.  I  am  not  fitted  to  wrestle  with  the 
wild  beasts  of  the  money  market;  I  would  rather  go 
to  Spain  and  be  a  matador." 

"  Roland,  here  comes  Robert.  Do  try  and  talk 
like  a  man  of  ordinary  intelligence.  Robert  wants 
to  like  you — wants  to  help  you  if  you  will  let 
him." 

"  Yes,  in  his  way.  I  want  to  be  helped  in  my  own 
way.  Good-evening,  Robert!  I  am  glad  you  were 
not  caught  in  the  rain." 

The  grave  face  brightened  to  the  charm  of  the 
young  man,  and  then  for  an  hour  Roland  delighted 
his  sister  by  his  sensible  consideration,  by  his  patient 


92  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

attention  to  some  uninteresting  details,  by  his  pru 
dence  in  speaking  of  the  future;  so  that  Robert 
said  confidentially  to  his  wife  that  night: 

"  Roland  is  a  delightful  young  man.  There  must 
be  some  niche  he  can  fill  with  honour.  I  wonder 
that  Caroline  could  resist  his  attentions.  Yet  she 
told  me  to-day  that  she  had  refused  him  twice." 

"Caroline   is  moved  by  her  intellect,  not  by  her 
heart.     Also,  she  is  very  Vere-de-Vereish,  and  she 
has  set  her  mark  for  a  lord,  at  least." 
"What  can  be  done  for  Roland?" 
"  He  talked  of  going  into  the  army." 
"Nonsense!      Going    into    the    army    means,    for 
Roland,  going  into  every  possible  temptation   and 
expense — that  would  not  do.      But  he  ought  to  be 
away  from  this  little  town.      He  will    be    making 
mischief  if  he  cannot  find  it  ready-made." 

"  I  am  very  uneasy  about  that  girl  from  the  fish 
ing  village,  the  girl  whom  I  used  to  have  with  me 
a  great  deal." 

"  Denas — the  girl  with  the  wonderful  voice?" 
"  Yes.  Did  you  think  her  voice  wonderful  ?" 
"  Perhaps  I  should  say  haunting  voice.  She  had 
certainly  some  unusual  gift.  I  do  not  pretend  to 
be  able  to  define  it.  But  I  remember  every  line 
of  the  first  measure  I  heard  her  sing.  Many  a  time 
since  I  have  thought  my  soul  was  singing  it  for  its 
own  pleasure,  without  caring  whether  I  liked  it  or 
not;  for  when  mentally  reckoning  up  a  transaction 
I  have  heard  quite  distinctly  the  rhythmical  rolling 
cadence,  like  sea  wave,  to  which  the  words  were 
set.  I  hear  it  now," 


WHA  T  SHALL  BE  DONE  FOR  ROLAND?    93 

"Upon  my  word,  Robert,  you  are  very  compli 
mentary  to  Denas.  I  shall  be  jealous,  my  dear." 

"  Not  complimentary  to  Denas  at  all.  I  hardly 
remember  what  the  girl  looked  like.  And  it  is  not 
worth  while  being  jealous  of  a  voice,  for  I  can  assure 
you,  Elizabeth,  a  haunting  song  is  a  most  unwel 
come  visitor  when  your  brain  is  full  of  figures. 
And  somehow  it  generally  managed  to  come  at  a 
time  when  the  bank  and  the  street  were  both  in 
a  tumult  with  the  sound  of  men's  voices,  the  roll 
of  wagons,  and  the  tramp  of  horses'  feet." 

"  A  song  of  the  sea  in  the  roar  of  the  city!  How 
strange!  1  am  curious  to  hear  it:  I  have  forgotten 
most  of  the  songs  Denas  sang." 

"  The  roar  of  the  city  appeared  to  provoke  it. 
When  it  was  loudest  I  usually  heard  most  clearly 
the  sweet  thrilling  echo,  asking 

"  '  What  is  the  tale  of  the  sea,  mother  ? 

What  is  the  tale  of  the  wide,  wide  sea  ? ' 
'  Merry  and  sad  are  the  tales,  my  darling, 

Merry  and  sad  as  tales  may  be. 
Those  ships  that  sail  in  the  happy  mornings, 

Full  of  the  lives  and  souls  of  men, 
Some  will  never  come  back,  my  darling; 

Some  will  sever  come  back  again  ! ' 

And  as  Elizabeth  listened  to  her  husband  half  sing 
ing  the  charmful  words,  she  took  a  sudden  dislike 
to  Denas.  But  she  said:  "The  song  is  a  lovely 
song,  and  I  must  send  for  Denas  to  sing  it  again  for 
us."  In  her  heart  she  resolved  never  to  send  for 
Denas;  "though  if  she  does  come" — and  at  this 
point  Elizabeth  held  herself  in  pause  for  a  minute 


94  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

ere  she  decided  resolutely — "  if  she  does  come  I 
will  do  what  is  right.  I  will  be  kind  to  her.  She 
cannot  help  her  witching  voice — only — only  I  must 
step  between  her  and  Roland — that  is  for  the  good 
of  both;"  and  she  fell  asleep,  planning  for  this 
emergency. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ELIZABETH    AND    DENAS. 

"  There  is  no  hate  in  a  woman  which  is  not  born  of  love." 

"Ever  note,  Lucilius, 
When  love  begins  to  slacken  and  decay, 
It  uses  an  enforced  ceremony: 
There  are  no  tricks  in  plain  and  simple  faith." 

— JULIUS  C^SAR. 

THE  rain  was  over  on  Wednesday  morning,  but 
the  day  was  gray  and  chill  and  the  crisping 
turf  and  the  hardening  road  indicated  a  coming 
frost.  There  was  nothing,  however,  to  prevent  the 
contemplated  visit  to  Burrell  Court,  and  a  painful 
momentary  shadow  flitted  over  John's  face  when 
Denas  came  to  breakfast  in  her  new  ruby-coloured 
merino  dress.  She  was  so  pretty,  so  full  of  the  im 
portance  of  her  trip,  so  affectionate,  that  he  could 
not  say  a  word  to  dash  her  spirits  or  warn  her  care 
lessness,  and  yet  he  had  a  quick  spasm  of  terror 
about  the  danger  she  was  going  so  gayly  into.  Of 
what  use,  alas!  are  our  premonitions  if  they  do  not 
bring  with  them  the  inexorable  moral  courage  nec 
essary  to  enforce  their  warnings? 

Denas  had  been  accustomed  to  go  to  Elizabeth's 
very  early  in  the  morning,  and  it  did  not  come  into 
her  mind  to  make  any  change  in  this  respect  be- 

95 


96  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

cause  of  Elizabeth's  marriage.  So  after  she  had 
taken  her  breakfast  she  put  on  her  hat  and  ulster 
and  her  warm  wool  gloves  and  took  the  cliff  road. 
John,  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  leaned  against  the 
door  lintel  and  watched  her.  Joan  stood  by  his 
side  for  a  moment,  following  with  her  eyes  the 
graceful  figure  of  her  child,  but  she  quickly  went 
back  to  her  work.  John's  work  was  over  for  the 
day;  he  had  come  in  on  the  dawn  tide  with  a  good 
take.  So  he  stood  at  the  door,  in  spite  of  the 
frosty  air,  and  watched  his  little  maid  climb  the 
hilly  road  with  the  elastic  step  and  untiring  breath 
of  happy  youth. 

It  was  then  only  eight  o'clock.  No  one  at  her 
home  had  thought  the  hour  too  early.  But  when 
she  reached  Burrell  Court  Elizabeth  had  not  come 
downstairs  and  breakfast  was  not  yet  served.  She 
was  much  annoyed  and  embarrassed  by  the  attitude 
of  the  servants.  She  had  no  visiting-card,  and  the 
footman  declined  to  disturb  Mrs.  Burrell  at  her 
toilet.  "Miss  could  wait,"  he  said  with  an  air  of 
familiarity  which  greatly  offended  Denas.  For  she 
considered  herself,  as  the  child  of  a  fisherman  own 
ing  his  own  cottage  and  boat  and  lord  of  all  the 
leagues  of  ocean  where  he  chose  to  cast  his  nets, 
immeasurably  the  superior  of  any  servant,  no  mat 
ter  how  fine  his  livery  might  be. 

She  sat  down  in  the  small  reception-room  into 
which  she  had  been  shown  and  waited.  She  heard 
Elizabeth  and  her  husband  go  through  the  hall 
together,  and  the  pleasant  odours  of  coffee  and 
broiled  meats  certified  to  the  serving  of  breakfast. 


ELIZABETH  AND   DEN  AS.  97 

But  no  one  came  near  her.  As  the  minutes  slipped 
away  her  wonder  became  anger;  and  she  was  re 
solving  to  leave  the  inhospitable  house  when  she 
heard  Roland's  step.  He  came  slowly  down  the 
polished  oak  stairs,  went  to  the  front  door,  opened 
it  and  looked  out  into  the  frosty  day;  then  turning 
rapidly  in  from  the  cold,  he  went  whistling  softly 
through  the  hall  to  the  breakfast-room. 

Just  as  h^  entered  the  footman  was  saying:  "A 
young  person,  ma'am.  She  had  no  card,  and  when 
I  asked  her  name  she  only  looked  at  me,  ma'am." 

"Where  did  you  put  her?"  asked  Elizabeth. 

"In  the  small  reception-room." 

"  Is  the  room  warm?" 

"  Not  very  cold,  ma'am." 

At  this  point  Robert  Burrell  looked  at  his  wife 
and  said:  "  It  is  perhaps  that  little  friend  of  yours, 
called  Denas. " 

"Jove!"  ejaculated  Roland.  "I  should  not  won 
der.  You  know,  Elizabeth,  she  was  always  an  early 
visitor.  Shall  I  go  and  see?" 

"  Frederick  will  go.  Frederick,  ask  the  young 
person  her  name. "  In  a  few  moments  Frederick 
returned  and  said,  "  Miss  Penelles  is  the  name." 

Then  Robert  Burrell  and  Roland  both  looked  at 
Elizabeth.  She  had  a  momentary  struggle  with 
herself;  she  hesitated,  her  brows  made  themselves 
into  a  point,  her  colour  heightened,  and  the  dead 
silence  gave  her  a  most  eloquent  chance  to  listen 
to  her  own  heart.  She  rose  with  leisurely  compo 
sure  and  left  the  room.  Mr.  Burrell  and  Roland 
took  no  notice  of  the  movement.  Mr.  Burrell  had 
7 


9§  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

his  watch  in  his  hand;  Roland  was  directing  Fred 
erick  as  to  the  particular  piece  of  fowl  he  wanted. 
Then  there  was  a  little  laugh  and  the  sound  of 
voices,  and  Elizabeth  and  Denas  entered  together. 
Elizabeth  had  made  Denas  remove  her  hat  and 
cloak,  and  the  girl  was  exceedingly  pretty.  Roland 
leaped  to  his  feet  and  imperatively  motioned  Fred 
erick  to  place  a  chair  beside  his  own,  and  Robert 
Burrell  met  her  with  a  frank  kindness  which  was 
pleasantly  reassuring. 

Denas  had  been  feeling  wronged  and  humiliated, 
but  Elizabeth  by  a  few  kind  words  of  apology  had 
caused  a  reaction  which  affected  her  inexperienced 
guest  with  a  kind  of  mental  intoxication.  Her 
countenance  glowed,  her  eyes  sparkled,  her  hair 
appeared  to  throw  off  light;  her  ruby-coloured  dress 
with  its  edges  of  white  lace  accentuated  the  marvel 
lous  colouring  of  her  cheeks  and  lips,  the  snow- 
white  of  her  wide  brows  and  slender  throat,  and  the 
intense  blue  of  eyes  that  had  caught  the  brightest 
tone  of  sea  and  sky. 

She  talked  well,  she  was  witty  without  being  ill- 
natured,  and  she  described  all  that  had  happened  in 
the  little  town  since  Elizabeth's  wedding-day  with 
a  subdued  and  charming  mimicry  that  made  the 
room  ring  with  laughter  Also,  she  ate  her  break 
fast  with  such  evident  enjoyment  that  she  gave  an 
appetite  to  the  others  All  took  an  extra  cup  of 
coffee  with  her,  and  it  seemed  only  a  part  of  the 
general  conversation  and  delightful  intercourse. 

After  breakfast  Bobert  Burrell  said  he  would 
delay  his  visit  to  London  for  a  trajn  if  Denas  woulo^ 


ELIZABETH  AND   DEN  AS.  $$ 

sing  for  him  once  more;  and  they  went  together 
to  the  parlour,  and  Roland  fell  at  once  into  the  rock 
ing  measure  of  Robert's  favourite,  and  in  the  middle 
of  a  bar  Denas  joined  her  voice  to  it,  and  they  went 
together  as  the  wind  goes  through  the  trees  or  the 
song  of  the  water  through  its  limpid  flow. 

As  she  finished,  Roland  looked  at  her  with  a  cer 
tain  intelligence  in  his  eyes,  and  then  struck  a  few 
wild,  startling  chords.  They  proved  to  be  the  basis 
of  a  sea-chant.  Denas  heard  them  with  a  quick 
movement  of  her  head  and  an  involuntary  though 
slight  movement  of  the  hands,  as  she  cried  out  in  a 
musical  cadence: 

"  Here  beginneth  the  sea, 
That  ends  not  until  the  world  ends. 
Blow,  westerly  wind,  for  me  ! 
When  the  wind  and  the  tide  are  friends, 
Westerly  wind  and  little  white  star, 
Safe  are  the  fishermen  over  the  bar." 

She  would  sing  no  more  when  the  chant  was  finished. 
She  had  seen  a  look  on  Elizabeth's  face,  not  intended 
for  her  to  see,  which  took  the  music  out  of  her  heart. 
Yet  she  had  sung  enough,  for  she  had  never  before 
sung  so  well.  She  was  astonished  at  her  own  power, 
and  Robert  Burrell  thanked  her  with  a  sincerity 
beyond  question. 

"  My  brain  will  be  among  figures  all  the  way  to 
London,  Miss  Penelles,"  he  said,  "but  I  am  quite 
sure  my  soul  will  be  wandering  on  the  shingle,  and 
feeling  the  blowing  winds,  and  hearing  the  plash  of 
the  waves,  and  singing  with  all  its  power: 


TOO  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

"  '  Here  beginneth  the  sea, 

That  ends  not  till  the  world  ends.'  '' 

Then  he  went  away,  and  Elizabeth  took  her  em 
broidery  and  sat  down  with  Denas.  A  great  gulf 
suddenly  opened  between  them.  There  was  no  sub 
ject  to  talk  about.  Elizabeth  had  sent  Roland 
away  on  the  double  pretence  of  wanting  him  to  take 
a  message  to  Caroline  and  of  wanting  to  have 
Dcnas  all  to  herself.  And  she  watched  Roland  so 
cleverly  that  he  had  no  opportunity  to  say  a  word 
to  Denas;  and  yet  he  had,  for  in  bidding  her  good 
bye  he  managed,  by  the  quick  lift  of  his  brows  and 
the  wide-open  look  in  his  eyes,  to  give  her  assur 
ance  that  he  would  be  at  their  usual  place  of  meet 
ing.  Elizabeth  was  a  clever  woman,  but  no  match 
for  a  man  who  has  love  in  his  heart  and  his  eyes  to 
speak  for  him. 

So  she  had  Denas  all  to  herself,  and  then,  in  spite 
of  everything  she  could  do,  her  manner  became 
indifferent  and  icy.  She  asked  after  John  and  Joan 
and  more  pointedly  after  Tris.  And  Denas  thought 
there  could  be  no  harm  in  talking  of  Tris  and  his 
affection  for  her.  She  chattered  away  until  she  felt 
she  was  not  being  listened  to.  Then  she  tried  to 
talk  of  the  past;  Elizabeth  said  it  was  so  asso 
ciated  with  poor  papa  she  would  rather  not  talk  of 
it.  It  was  very  painful  to  her,  and  she  had  promised 
Mr.  Burrell  not  to  indulge  in  painful  thoughts.  So 
Denas  felt  that  the  past  was  a  shut  and  clasped  book 
between  them  for  ever. 

Nothing  remained  but  to  ask  Elizabeth  about  her 
wedding-trip.  She  answered  her,  but  not  as  she 


ELIZABETH  AND  DEN  AS.  101 

would  have  answered  an  acquaintance  of  her  own 
circle.  In  her  heart  she  felt  it  to  be  a  presumption 
in  Denas.  Why  should  this  girl  question  her  about 
her  opinions  and  doings?  Her  conscience  had  con 
tinually  to  urge  her  to  justice,  and  she  felt  the  strife 
of  feeling  to  be  very  uncomfortable. 

Denas  had. hoped  to  be  shown  all  the  pretty  dresses 
and  cloaks  and  knick-knacks  of  fine  wearing  apparel 
that  Elizabeth  had  bought  in  London,  Paris,  and 
other  European  capitals.  These  things  had  been 
much  talked  of  in  the  town,  and  it  would  have  been 
a  little  distinction  to  Denas  to  have  seen  and 
handled  them.  Perhaps,  also,  there  had  been,  in  her 
deepest  consciousness,  a  hope  that  Elizabeth  had 
brought  her  some  special  gift — some  trinket  that 
she  could  be  proud  of  all  her  life  and  keep  in 
memory  of  their  early  friendship. 

But  Elizabeth  showed  her  nothing  and  gave  her 
nothing;  moreover,  when  Denas  spoke  of  the  beau 
tiful  morning  robe  she  wore,  Elizabeth  frowned 
slightly  and  answered  with  an  evident  disinclina 
tion  to  discuss  the  subject,  "Yes,  it  is  beautiful." 
For  though  Elizabeth  did  not  analyse  the  feeling, 
she  was  annoyed  at  even  a  verbal  return  to  a  time 
when  gowns  of  every  kind  had  been  a  consideration 
worth  while  discussing  with  one  whose  taste  and 
skill  would  help  to  fashion  them.  Poverty  casts 
only  shadows  on  memory,  and  few  people  like  to 
stand  voluntarily  again  in  them. 

About  noon  there  was  a  visitor,  and  Elizabeth 
received  her  in  another  room.  She  made  an  apology 
to  Denas,  but  the  girl,  left  to  herself,  began  to  be 


102  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

angry  with  herself.  She  could  hear  Elizabeth  and 
her  caller  merrily  discussing  the  affairs  of  their  own 
set,  and  Elizabeth  had  quite  a  different  voice;  it 
was  sympathetic,  ready  to  break  into  laughter,  full 
of  confidential  tones.  Denas  remembered  this  voice 
well.  She  had  once  been  used  to  hear  it  and  to 
blend  her  own  with  it.  Her  heart  burned  when  she 
called  to  mind  her  old  friend's  excessive  civility; 
her  hardly  concealed  weariness;  the  real  coldness 
of  feeling  which  no  pleasant  words  could  warm. 
There  was  no  longer  any  sympathy  between  them; 
there  was  not  even  any  interest  which  could  take 
the  place  of  sympathy.  Elizabeth  did  not  really 
care  whether  Denas  was  offended  or  not,  but  she 
had  a  conscience,  and  it  urged  her  to  be  kind  and 
just.  And  she  did  try  to  obey  the  order,  but  when 
orders  perversely  go  against  inclination  they  do 
not  obtain  a  cheerful  service. 

Denas  felt  and  thought  quickTy:  "I  am  not 
wanted  here.  I  ought  to  go  away,  and  I  will  go." 
These  resolutions  were  arrived  at  by  apprehension, 
not  by  any  definable  process  of  reasoning.  She 
touched  a  bell,  asked  for  her  hat  and  cloak,  left  a 
message  for  Elizabeth,  and  went  away  from  Burrell 
Court  at  once. 

The  rapid  walk  to  St.  Penfer  relieved  her  feel 
ings.  "I  have  been  wounded  to-day,"  she  sobbed, 
"just  as  really  as  if  Elizabeth  had  flung  a  stone  at 
me  or  stabbed  me  with  a  knife.  I  am  heart-hurt. 
I  am  sorry  I  went  to  see  her.  Why  did  I  go?  She 
is  afraid  of  Roland!  Good!  I  shall  pay  her  back 
through  Roland.  If  she  will  not  be  a  friend  to  me, 


ELIZABETH  AND   DEN  AS.  103 

she  may  have  to  call  me  sister."  Then  she  remem 
bered  what  Roland  had  said  about  her  voice  and 
her  face  was  illumined  by  the  thought,  and  she 
lifted  her  head  and  stepped  loftily  to  it.  "She  may 
be  proud  enough  of  me  yet.  I  wonder  what  I  have 
done?" 

To  such  'futile  questions  and  reflections,  she 
walked  back  to  St.  Penfer.  She  had  not  yet  found 
out  that  the  sum  of  her  offending  lay  in  her  ability 
to  add  the  four  letters  which  spelled  the  word  fair 
to  her  name.  If  she  had  been  strikingly  ugly  and 
dull,  instead  of  strikingly  pretty  and  bright,  Eliza 
beth  would  have  found  it  easier  to  be  kind  and  gen 
erous  to  her. 

Denas  went  to  Priscilla  Mohun's.  Reticence  is 
a  cultivated  quality,  and  Denas  had  none  of  it;  so 
she  told  the  whole  story  of  her  ill-treatment  to 
Priscilla  and  found  her  full  of  sympathy.  Priscilla 
had  her  own  little  slights  to  relate,  and  if  all  was 
true  she  told  Denas,  then  Elizabeth  had  managed 
in  a  week's  time  to  offend  many  of  her  old  acquaint 
ances  irreconcilably. 

Denas  remained  with  Priscilla  until  three  o'clock ; 
then  she  walked  down  the  cliff  to  the  little  glade 
where  she  hoped  to  find  Roland.  He  was  not  there. 
She  calculated  the  distance  he  had  to  ride,  she 
made  allowance  for  his  taking  lunch  with  Caroline 
Burrell,  and  she  concluded  that  he  ought  to  have 
been  at  the  trysting-place  before  she  was.  She 
waited  until  four  o'clock,  growing  more  angry  every 
moment,  then  she  hastened  away.  "  I  am  right 
served,"  she  muttered.  "I  will  let  Roland  Tresham 


104  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

and  Elizabeth  Burrell  alone  for  the  future."  The 
tide  of  anger  rose  swiftly  in  her  heart,  and  she 
stepped  homeward  to  its  flow. 

She  had  gone  but  a  little  way  when  she  heard 
Roland  calling  her.  She  would  not  answer  him. 
She  heard  his  rapid  footsteps  behind,  but  she  would 
not  turn  her  head.  When  he  reached  her  he  was 
already  vexed  at  her  perverse  mood.  "  I  could  not 
get  here  sooner,  Denas, "  he  said  crossly.  "Do  be 
reasonable." 

"You  need  not  have  come  at  all." 

"  Denas,  stop.  Listen  to  me.  If  you  walk  so 
quickly  we  shall  be  seen  from  the  village." 

"I  wish  father  to  see  us.  I  will  call  him  to  come 
to  me." 

"  Denas,  what  have  I  done  ?" 

"You!  You  are  a  part  of  the  whole.  Your  sister 
has  taught  me  to-day  the  difference  between  us.  I 
am  glad  there  is  a  difference — I  intend  to  forget  you 
both  from  this  day." 

"Will  you  punish  me  because  Elizabeth  was 
unkind?" 

"Some  day  you  also  will  change  just  as  she  has 
done.  I  will  not  wait  for  that  day.  No,  indeed! 
To  be  sure,  I  shall  suffer.  Father,  mother,  every 
body  suffers  in  one  way  or  another.  I  can  bear  as 
much  as  others  can." 

"You  are  an  absurd  little  thing.  Come,  darling! 
Come  back  with  me!  I  want  to  tell  you  a  very  par 
ticular  secret." 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  pet,  or  coax,  or  tell  me 
tales  like  a  cross  child  ?  I  am  a  woman,  and  I  have 


ELIZABETH  AND  DEN  AS.  105 

been  hurt  in  every  place  a  woman  can  be  hurt  by 
your  sister.  I  will  not  go  back  with  you." 

"Very  well,  Denas.  You  will  repent  this  temper, 
I  can  tell  you,  my  dear." 

"  No,  I  shall  not  repent  it.  I  will  go  to  my  father 
and  mother.  I  will  tell  them  how  bad  I  have  been 
and  ask  them  to  forgive  me.  I  shall  never  repent 
that,  I  know." 

She  drew  her  arm  from  his  clasp  and,  without 
lifting  her  eyes  to  him,  went  forward  with  a  swift, 
purposeful  step.  He  watched  her  a  few  moments, 
and  then  with  a  dark  countenance  turned  homeward. 
"  This  is  Elizabeth's  doing,"  he  muttered.  "  Eliza 
beth  is  too,  too  detestably  respectable  for  anything. 
I  saw  and  felt  her  sugared  patronage  of  Denas 
through  all  her  soft  phrases;  she  treats  me  in  the 
same  way  sometimes.  When  women  get  a  husband 
they  are  conceited  enough,  but  when  they  get  a 
husband  and  money  also  they  are — the  devil  only 
knows  what  they  are." 

He  entered  Elizabeth's  presence  very  sulkily. 
Robert  was  in  London  and  there  was  no  reason 
why  he  should  keep  his  temper  in  the  background. 
"There  is  Caroline's  answer,"  he  said,  throwing  a 
letter  on  the  table,  "and  I  do  wish,  Elizabeth,  you 
would  send  me  pleasanter  errands  in  the  future. 
Caroline  kept  me  waiting  until  she  returned  from  a 
lunch  at  Colonel  Prynne's.  And  then  she  hurried  me 
away  because  there  was  to  be  a  grand  dinner-party 
at  the  Pullens'." 

"  At  the  Pullens'  ?  It  is  very  strange  Robert  and 
I  were  not  invited." 


io6  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

"  I  should  say  very  strange  indeed,  seeing  that 
Caroline  is  their  guest.  But  Lord  and  Lady  Avon- 
mere  were  to  be  present,  and  of  course  they  did 
not  want  any  of  us." 

"  Any  of  us  ?     Pray,  why  not  ?" 

"  Father's  bankruptcy  is  not  forgotten.  We  were 
nobodies  until  you  married  Robert  Burrell,  and 
even  Robert's  money  is  all  trade  money." 

"You  are  purposely  trying  to  say  disagreeable 
things,  Roland.  What  fresh  snub  has  Caroline  been 
giving  you?" 

"  Snubs  are  common  to  all.  Big  people  are 
snubbed  by  lesser  people,  and  these  by  still  smaller 
ones,  and  so  ad  infinitum.  You  are  a  bit  bigger  than 
Denas,  so  you  snub  her,  and  Denas,  of  course,  passes 
on  the  snub.  Why  should  she  not?  Where  is 
Denas?"  V 

"  She  has  gone  home,  and  I  do  hope  she  will  never 
come  here  again.  She  behaved  very  impertinently." 

"That  I  will  not  believe.  Put  the  shoe  on  your 
own  foot,  Elizabeth.  You  were  rude  before  I  left, 
and  I  dare  swear  you  were  rude,  ruder,  rudest  after 
you  were  alone  with  the  girl.  For  pure  spite  and 
ill-nature,  a  newly  married  woman  beats  the  devil." 

"Who  are  you  talking  to,  Roland?" 

"To  you.  I  have  to  talk  plainly  to  you  occa 
sionally — birds  in  their  little  nests  agree,  but  brothers 
and  sisters  do  not;  in  fact,  they  cannot.  For  in 
stance,  I  should  be  a  brute  if  I  agreed  with  you 
about  Denas." 

"  I  say  that  Denas  behaved  very  rudely.  She 
went  away  without  my  knowledge  and  without  bid- 


ELIZABETH  AND   DENAS.  107 

ding  me  good-bye.       I  shall   decline  to  have   any 
more  to  do  with  her." 

"I  have  no  doubt  she  has  already  declined  you 
in  every  possible  form.  As  far  as  I  can  judge,  she 
is  a  spirited:  little  creature.  But  gracious!  how 
she  did  sing  this  morning!  I'll  bet  you  fifty  pounds 
if  Robert  Burrell  had  heard  her  sing  a  year  ago 
you  would  not  have  been  mistress  of  Burrell  Court 
to-day." 

"  Either  you  or  I  must  leave  the  room,  Roland. 
I  will  not  listen  any  longer  to  you." 

"  Sit  still.  I  am  very  glad  to  go.  I  shall  take  a 
room  at  the  Black  Lion  to-morrow.  The  atmos 
phere  of  the  Court  is  so  exquisitely  rarefied  and 
refined  that  I  am  choking  in  it.  I  only  hope  you 
may  not  smother  Robert  in  it.  Good-night!  I 
notice  Robert  goes  to  London  pretty  often  lately. 
Good-night." 

Then  he  closed  the  door  sharply  and  went  smiling 
to  his  room.  "  I  think  I  have  made  madame  quite 
as  uncomfortable  as  she  has  made  me,"  he  muttered, 
"and  I  will  go  to  the  Black  Lion  to-morrow.  From 
there  I  can  reach  Denas  without  being  watched  at 
both  ends.  John  Penelles  to  the  right  and  Eliza 
beth  Burrell  to  the  left  of  me  are  too  much  and  too 
many.  For  Denas  I  must  see.  I  must  see  her  if  I 
have  to  dress  myself  in  blue  flannels  and  oil-skins 
to  manage  it." 

In  the  morning  Elizabeth  ate  her  breakfast  alone. 
She  had  determined  to  have  a  good  quarrel  with 
Roland,  and  make  him  ashamed  of  his  speech  and 
behaviour  on  the  previous  evening.  But  before  she 


io8  A    SINGER    FROM   THE  SEA. 

rose  Roland  had  gone  to  the  Black  Lion,  and  more 
over  he  had  left  orders  for  his  packed  traps  and 
trunks  to  be  sent  after  him.  He  had  a  distinct  ob 
ject  in  this  move.  At  the  Court  he  was  constantly 
under  surveillance,  and  he  was  also  very  much  at 
Elizabeth's  commands.  He  had  little  time  to  give 
to  the  pursuit  of  Denas,  and  that  little  at  hours 
unsuitable  for  the  purpose.  But  at  the  Black  Lion 
his  time  was  all  his  own.  He  could  breakfast  and 
dine  at  whatever  hour  suited  his  occupation;  he 
could  watch  the  movements  of  Denas  without  being 
constantly  suspected  and  brought  to  book. 

Her  temper  the  previous  evening,  while  it  seriously 
annoyed,  did  not  dishearten  him.  He  really  liked 
her  better  for  its  display.  He  never  supposed  that 
it  would  last.  He  expected  her  to  make  a  visit  to 
St.  Penfer  the  next  day;  she  would  hope  that  he 
would  be  on  the  watch  for  her;  she  would  be  sure 
of  it. 

But  Denas  did  not  visit  St.  Penfer  that  week,  and 
Roland  grew  desperate.  On  Saturday  night  he  went 
down  the  cliff  after  dark  and  hung  around  John's 
cottage,  hoping  that  for  some  reason  or  other 
Denas  would  come  to  the  door.  He  had  a  note  in 
his  hand  ready  to  put  into  her  hand  if  she  did  so. 
He  could  see  her  plainly,  for  the  only  screen  to  the 
windows  was  some  flowering  plants  inside  and  a 
wooden  shutter  on  the  outside,  never  closed  but  in 
extreme  bad  weather.  Joan  was  making  the  evening 
meal,  John  sat  upon  the  hearth,  and  Denas,  with  her 
knitting  in  her  hands,  was  by  his  side.  Once  or  twice 
he  saw  her  rise  and  help  her  mother  with  some 


ELIZABETH  AND   DEN  AS.  109 

homely  duty,  and  finally  she  laid  down  her  work, 
and,  kneeling  on  the  rug  at  he^  father's  feet,  she 
began  to  toast  the  bread  for  their  tea.  Her  unstudied 
grace,  the  charm  of  her  beauty  and  kindness,  the 
very  simplicity  of  her  dress,  fascinated  him  afresh. 

"  That  is  the  costume — the  very  costume — she 
ought  to  sing  in,"  he  thought.  "With  some  fishing 
nets  at  her  feet  and  the  mesh  in  her  hands,  how 
that  dark  petticoat  and  that  little  scarlet  josey  would 
tell;  the  scarlet  josey  cut  away  just  so  at  the  neck. 
What  a  ravishing  throat  she  has!  How  white  and 
round!" 

At  this  point  in  his  reverie  he  heard  footsteps, 
and  he  walked  leisurely  aside.  His  big  ulster  in 
the  darkness  was  a  sufficient  disguise;  he  had  no 
fear  of  being  known  by  any  passer-by.  But  these 
footsteps  stopped  at  John's  door  and  then  went 
inside  the  cottage.  That  circumstance  roused  in 
Roland's  heart  a  tremor  he  had  never  known  before. 
He  cautiously  returned  to  his  point  of  observation. 
The  visitor  was  a  young  and  handsome  fisherman. 
It  was  Tris  Penrose.  Roland  saw  with  envy  his 
welcome  and  his  familiarity.  He  saw  that  Joan  had 
placed  for  him  a  chair  on  the  hearth  opposite  John; 
Denas,  therefore,  was  at  his  feet  also.  Tris  could 
feed  his  eyes  upon  her  near  loveliness.  He  could 
speak  to  her.  He  did  speak  to  her,  and  Denas 
looked  up  with  a  smile  to  answer  him.  When  the 
toast  was  made  Tris  helped  Denas  to  her  feet;  he 
put  her  chair  to  the  table,  he  put  his  own  beside  it. 
He  waited  upon  her  with  such  delight  and  tender 
admiration  that  Roland  was  made  furiously  angry 


no  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

and  miserable  by  his  rival's  happiness.  The  poor 
ape  jealousy  began  meddling  in  all  his  better 
feelings. 

He  hung  around  the  cottage  until  he  was  freezing 
with  cold  and  burning  with  rage.  "And  this  is 
Elizabeth's  doing,"  he  kept  muttering  as  he 
climbed  the  cliff  to  the  upper  town.  He  could  not 
sleep  all  night.  He  thought  of  everything  that 
could  add  to  his  despairing  uncertainty.  The  next 
day  was  the  Sabbath.  Denas  would  go  to  chapel 
with  her  father  and  mother.  Tris  would  be  sure  to 
meet  her  there,  to  return  home  with  her,  to  sit  again 
at  her  side  on  that  bright,  homelike  hearthstone. 

"I  wish  I  were  a  fisher,"  he  cried  passionately. 
"They  know  what  it  is  to  live,  for  their  boats 
make  their  cottages  like  heaven."  He  could  not 
deny  to  himself  that  Tris  was  a  very  handsome  fel 
low  and  that  Denas  smiled  pleasantly  at  him. 
"  But  she  never  smiled  once  as  she  smiles  at  me. 
He  never  once  drew  her  soul  into  her  face,  as  I  can 
draw  it.  She  does  not  love  him  as  she  loves  me." 
With  such  assertions  he  consoled  his  heart,  the  while 
he  was  trying  to  form  some  plan  which  would  give 
him  an  opportunity  to  get  Denas  once  more  under 
his  influence. 

On  Monday  morning  he  went  to  see  Priscilla 
Mohun.  He  had  a  long  conversation  with  the  dress 
maker,  and  that  afternoon  Priscilla  walked  down  to 
John's  cottage  and  made  a  proposal  to  Denas.  It 
was  so  blunt  and  business-like,  so  tight  in  regard  to 
money  matters,  that  John  and  Joan,  and  Denas  also, 
were  completely  deceived.  She  said  she  had  heard 


ELIZABETH  AND  DEN  AS.  in 

that  Denas  and  Tris  Penrose  were  to  be  married, 
and  she  thought  Denas  might  like  to  make  some 
steady  money  to  help  the  furnishing.  She  would 
give  her  two  shillings  a  day  and  her  board  and 
lodging.  Also,  she  could  have  Saturday  and  Sun 
day  at  her  home  if  she  wished. 

Denas,  who  was  fretted  by  the  monotony  of  home 
duties  really  too  few  to  employ  both  her  mother  and 
herself,  was  glad  of  the  offer.  John,  who  had  a 
little  vein  of  parsimony  in  his  fine  nature,  thought 
of  the  ten  shillings  a  week  and  of  how  soon  it 
would  grow  to  be  ten  pounds.  Joan  remembered 
how  much  there  was  to  see  and  hear  at  Miss  Pris- 
cilla's,  and  Denas  was  so  dull  at  home !  Why  should 
she  not  have  a  good  change  when  it  was  well  paid 
for?  And  then  she  remembered  the  happy  week 
ends  there  would  be,  with  so  much  to  tell  and  to 
talk  over. 

She  asked  Priscilla  to  stay  and  have  a  cup  of  tea 
with  them,  and  so  settle  the  subject.  And  the 
result  was  that  Denas  went  back  to  St.  Penfer  with 
Priscilla  and  began  her  duties  on  the  next  day. 
That  evening  she  had  a  letter  from  Roland.  It  was 
a  letter  well  adapted  to  touch  her  heart.  Roland 
was  really  miserable,  and  he  knew  well  how  to  cry 
out  for  comfort.  He  told  her  he  had  left  his  sister's 
home  because  Elizabeth  had  insulted  her  there. 
He  led  her  to  believe  that  Elizabeth  was  in  great 
distress  at  his  anger,  but  that  nothing  she  could  say 
or  do  would  make  him  forgive  her  until  Denas  her 
self  was  satisfied. 

And  Denas  was  glad  that  Elizabeth  should  suffer. 


ii2  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

She  hoped  Roland  would  make  her  suffer  a  great 
deal.  For  Denas  had  not  yet  reached  that  divine 
condition  in  which  it  is  possible  to  love  one's 
enemies.  She  was  happy  to  think  that  Roland  was 
at  the  Black  Lion  with  all  his  possessions;  for  she 
knew  how  the  gossip  on  this  occurrence  would  annoy 
all  the  proprieties  in  Mrs.  Burrell's  social  code. 

Her  anger  served  Roland's  purpose  quite  as  much 
as  her  love.  After  the  third  letter  she  wrote  a  reply. 
Then  she  agreed  to  meet  him;  then  she  was  quite 
under  his  influence  again,  much  more  so,  indeed, 
than  she  had  ever  been  before.  In  a  week  or  two 
he  got  into  the  habit  of  dropping  into  Priscilla's 
shop  for  a  pair  of  gloves,  for  writing  paper,  for  the 
Daily  News,  for  a  bottle  of  cologne — in  short,  there 
were  plenty  of  occasions  for  a  visit,  and  he  took 
them.  And  as  Priscilla's  was  near  the  Black  Lion 
and  the  only  news  depot  in  town,  and  as  other  gen 
tlemen  went  frequently  there  also  for  the  supply  of 
their  small  wants,  no  one  was  surprised  at  Roland's 
purchases.  His  intercourse  with  Priscilla  was  ob 
viously  of  the  most  formal  character;  she  treated 
him  with  the  same  short  courtesy  she  gave  to  all  and 
sundry,  and  Denas  was  so  rarely  seen  behind  the 
counter  that  she  was  not  in  any  way  associated  with 
the  customers.  This  indeed  had  been  the  stipula 
tion  on  which  John  had  specially  insisted. 

One  morning  Roland  came  hurriedly  into  the 
shop.  "My  sister  is  coming  here,  I  am  sure,  Miss 
Mohun,"  he  said.  "Tell  Denas,  if  you  please,  she 
said  she  wished  to  meet  her  again.  Tell  her  I  will 
remain  here  and  stand  by  her."  There  was  no  time 


ELIZABETH  AND  DEN  AS.  113 

to  deliberate,  and  Denas,  acting  upon  the  feeling  of 
the  moment,  came  quickly  to  Roland,  and  was  talk 
ing  to  him  when  Mrs.  Burrell  entered.  They  re 
mained  in  conversation  a  moment  or  two,  as  if  loth 
to  part;  then  Denas  advanced  to  the  customer  with 
an  air  of  courtesy,  but  also  of  perfect  ignorance  as 
to  her  personality. 

"Well,  Denas?"  said  the  lady. 

"What  do  you  wish,  madam?" 

"I  wish  to  see  Miss  Priscilla. " 

Denas  touched  a  bell  and  returned  to  Roland, 
who  had  appeared  to  be  unconscious  of  his  sister's 
presence.  Elizabeth  glanced  at  her  brother;  then, 
without  waiting  for  Priscilla,  left  the  shop.  The 
lovely  face  of  Denas  was  like  a  flame.  "Thank 
you,  Roland!"  she  said  with  effusion.  "You  have 
paid  my  account  in  full  for  me." 

"Then,  darling,  let  me  come  here  to-night  and 
say  something  very  important  to  us  both.  Priscilla 
will  give  me  house-room  for  an  hour,  I  know  she 
will.  Here  she  comes.  Let  me  ask  her. " 

Priscilla  affected  reluctance,  but  really  she  was 
prepared  for  the  request.  She  had  expected  it  be 
fore  and  had  been  uneasy  at  its  delay.  She  was 
beginning  to  fear  Roland's  visits  might  be  noticed, 
might  be  talked  about,  might  injure  her  custom.  It 
pleased  her  much  to  anticipate  an  end  to  a  risky 
situation.  She  managed,  without  urging  Denas,  to 
make  the  girl  feel  that  her  relations  with  Roland 
ought  either  to  be  better  understood  or  else  entirely 
broken  off. 

So  Roland  went  back  to  his  inn  with  a  promise 
8 


H4  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

that  made  him  light-hearted.  "  Elizabeth  has  done 
me  one  good  turn,"  he  soliloquized.  "  Now  let  me 
see.  I  will  consider  my  plea  and  get  all  in  order. 
First,  I  must  persuade  Denas  to  go  to  London. 
Second,  the  question  is,  marriage  or  no  marriage? 
Third,  her  voice  and  its  cultivation.  Fourth,  the 
hundred  pounds  in  St.  Merryn's  Bank.  Fifth,  every 
thing  as  soon  as  can  be — to-morrow  night  if  possible. 
Sixth,  my  own  money  from  Tremaine.  I  should 
have  about  four  hundred  pounds.  Heigho!  I  wish 
it  was  eight  o'clock.  And  what  an  old  cat  Priscilla 
is!  I  do  not  think  I  shall  give  her  the  fifty  pounds 
I  promised  her.  She  does  not  deserve  it — and  she 
never  durst  ask  me  for  it." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

IS    THERE    ANY    SORROW    LIKE    LOVING  ? 

"For  love  the  sense  of  right  and  wrong  confounds  ; 
Strong  love  and  proud  ambition  have  no  bounds." 

— DRYDEN. 

"The  fate  of  love  is  such 
That  still  it  sees  too  little  or  too  much." 

— DRYDEN. 

"Fate  ne'er  strikes  deep  but  when  unkindness  joins. 

But  there's  a  fate  in  kindness, 
Still  to  be  least  returned  where  most  'tis  given." 

— DRYDEN. 

LOVERS  see  miracles,  or  think  they  ought  to. 
Roland  expected  all  his  own  world  to  turn  to 
his  love.  The  self-denying,  forbearing,  loyal  affec 
tion  Elizabeth  had  shown  him  all  her  life  was  now 
of  no  value,  since  she  did  not  sympathize  with  his 
love  for  Denas.  John  and  Joan  Penelles  were  the 
objects  of  his  dislike  and  scorn  because  they  could 
not  see  their  daughter's  future  as  he  saw  it.  He 
thought  it  only  right  that  Priscilla  Mohun  should 
risk  her  business  and  her  reputation  for  the  further 
ance  of  his  romantic  love  affair.  He  had  easily 
persuaded  himself  that  it  was  utterly  contemptible 
in  her  to  expect  any  financial  reward  for  a  service 
of  love. 

"5 


n6  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

Denas  had  more  force  of  character.  She  was 
offended  at  Elizabeth  because  Elizabeth  had 
wounded  her  self-respect  and  put  her  into  a  most 
humiliating  position.  She  was  too  truthful  not  to 
admit  that  Elizabeth  had  from  the  first  hour  of  their 
acquaintance  openly  opposed  anything  like  love- 
making  between  Roland  and  herself.  She  under 
stood  and  acknowledged  the  rights  of  her  parents. 
In  trampling  on  them  she  knew  that  she  was  sin 
ning  with  her  eyes  open.  And  if  Roland  spent  the 
day  in  arranging  his  plans  for  the  future,  she  spent 
it  in  facing  squarely  the  thing  she  had  determined 
to  do. 

For  she  was  aware  that  Roland  was  coming  that 
night  to  urge  her  to  go  to  London  and  become  a 
public  singer.  She  did  not  know  how  much  money 
would  be  required,  but  she  knew  that  whatever  the 
sum  was  it  must  come  from  Roland.  Then,  of 
course,  she  must  marry  Roland  at  once.  Under  no 
other  relationship  could  she  take  money  from  him. 
Yet  on  carefully  questioning  her  memory  she  was 
sure  that  the  subject  of  marriage  had  been  avoided, 
or,  at  any  rate,  not  spoken  of  in  any  discussion  of 
her  future. 

"But, "she  said,  with  a  swift  motion  of  deter 
mination,  "  that  is  the  first  subject,  and  the  one  on 
which  all  others  depend." 

At  eight  o'clock  Roland  was  with  her.  He  came 
with  his  most  irresistible  manner,  came  prepared  to 
carry  his  own  desires  in  an  enthusiasm  of  that  su 
preme  selfishness  which  he  chose  to  designate  as 
"love  for  Denas." 


75  THERE  ANY  SORRO  W  LIKE  LO  VING  ?    117 

"You  have  only  to  learn  how  to  manage  that 
wonderful  voice  of  yours,  Denas,"  he  said,  "and  a 
steady  flow  of  money  will  be  the  result.  You  must 
have  read  of  the  enormous  sums  singers  receive,  but 
we  will  be  modest  at  first  and  suppose  you  only  make 
a  few  hundreds  a  year.  In  the  long  run  that  will 
be  nothing;  and  you  will  be  a  very  rich  woman." 

"You  have  often  said  such  things  to  me,  Roland. 
But  perhaps  you  do  not  judge  me  severely  enough. 
I  must  see  a  great  teacher,  and  he  will  tell  me  the 
truth." 

"  To  be  sure.      And  you  must  have  lessons  also." 

"  And  for  these  things  there  must  be  money." 

"  Certainly.  I  have  upward  of  five  hundred 
pounds  and  you  have  one  hundred  at  least." 

"I  have  nothing,  Roland." 

"  The  money  you  told  me  of  in  St.  Merryn's 
Bank." 

"  I  cannot  touch  that." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  will  not.  Father  has  been  saving  it 
ever  since  I  was  born.  If  he  is  sick  it  is  all  he 
has  to  live  upon.  It  is  bad  enough  to  desert  my 
parents;  I  will  not  rob  them  also." 

"You  must  not  look  at  things  in  such  extreme 
ways.  You  are  going  to  spend  money  in  order  to 
make  a  fortune." 

"  I  will  not  spend  father's  money — the  fortune 
may  never  come." 

"  Then  there  is  my  money.  You  are  welcome  to 
every  penny  of  it.  All  I  have  is  yours.  I  only 
live  for  you." 


n8  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

"  To  say  such  things,  Roland,  is  the  way  to  marry 
me — if  you  mean  to  marry  me — is  it  not  ?  Among 
the  fishermen  it  is  so,  only  they  would  say  first  of 
all,  'I  do  wish  to  be  your  husband.'  " 

"  I  am  not  a  fisherman,  Denas.  And  it  would  really 
be  very  dishonourable  to  bind  your  fortune  irrevoca 
bly  to  mine.  In  a  couple  of  years  you  would  be  apt 
to  say:  'Roland  played  me  a  mean  trick,  for  he 
made  me  his  wife  only  that  he  might  have  all  the 
money  I  earn.'  Don't  you  see  what  a  dreadful  po 
sition  I  should  be  in?  I  should  be  ashamed  to 
show  my  face.  Really,  dearest,  I  must  look  after 
my  honour.  My  money — that  is  nothing." 

"  Roland,  if  honour  and  money  cannot  go  to 
gether,  there  is  something  wrong.  If  I  went  to 
London  alone  and  you  were  also  in  London  and 
paying  for  my  lessons,  do  you  know  what  everyone 
would  say  in  St.  Penfer?  Do  you  know  what  they 
would  call  me?" 

"  Why  need  you  care  for  a  lot  of  old  gossips — 
you,  with  such  a  grand  future  before  you?" 

"  I  do  care.  I  care  for  myself.  I  care  a  thou 
sand  times  more  for  father  and  mother.  A  word 
against  my  good  name  would  kill  them.  They 
would  never  hold  up  their  heads  any  more.  And 
then,  however  bad  a  name  the  public  gave  me,  I 
should  give  myself  a  worse  one;  I  should  indeed! 
Night  and  day  my  soul  would  never  cease  saying 
to  me:  'Denas  Penelles,  you  are  a  murderess! 
Hanging  is  too  little  for  you.  Get  out  of  this  life 
and  go  to  your  own  place' — and  you  know  where 
that  would  be." 


75  THERE  ANY  SORRO  W  LIKE  LO  VING  ?    119 

"You  silly,  bigoted  little  Methodist!  People  do 
not  die  of  grief  in  these  days,  they  have  too  much 
to  do.  You  would  soon  be  able  to  send  them  a 
great  deal  of  money,  and  that  would  put  all  right." 

"For  shame,  Roland!  Little  you  know  of  St. 
Penfer  fishermen,  nothing  at  all  you  know  of  John 
and  Joan  Penelles,  if  you  think  a  city  full  of  gold 
would  atone  to  them  for  my  dishonour.  What  is 
the  use  of  going  around  about  our  words  when  there 
are  straight  ones  enough  to  say?  I  will  go  to  Lon 
don  as  your  wife,  or  I  will  not  go  at  all." 

There  was  a  momentary  expression  on  Roland's 
face  which  might  have  terrified  Denas  if  she  had 
seen  it,  but  her  gaze  was  far  outward;  she  was 
looking  down  on  the  waves  and  the  boats  of  St. 
Penfer  and  on  one  little  cottage  on  its  shingle. 
Arid  Roland's  hasty  glance  into  her  resolute  face 
convinced  him  that  all  parleying  was  useless.  He 
was  angry  and  could  not  quite  control  himself. 
His  voice  showed  decided  pique  as  he  answered: 

"Very  well,  Denas.  Take  care  of  your  own  hon 
our,  by  all  means;  mine  is  of  no  value,  of  course." 

"  If  you  think  marrying  me  makes  it  of  no  value, 
take  care  of  your  own  honour,  Roland.  I  will  not 
be  your  wife;  no,  indeed.  And  as  for  London,  I 
will  not  go  near  it.  And  as  for  my  voice,  it  may 
be  worth  money,  but  it  is  not  worth  my  honour,  and 
my  good  name,  and  my  father's  and  mother's  life. 
Why  should  I  sing  for  strangers?  I  will  sing  for 
my  father  and  the  fishers  on  the  sea;  and  I  will 
sing  in  the  chapel — and  there  is  an  end  of  the 
matter." 


izo  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

She  rose  with  such  an  air  of  decision  and  wounded 
feeling  that  Roland  involuntarily  thought  of  her 
attitude  when  Elizabeth  offended  her.  From  the 
position  taken  at  that  hour  she  had  never  wavered; 
she  was  still  as  angry  at  Mrs.  Burrell  as  she  had 
been  when  she  left  the  Court  in  the  first  outburst  of 
her  indignation.  And  she  was  so  handsome  in  her 
affected  indifference  and  her  real  indignation  that 
Roland  was  ready  to  sacrifice  everything  rather  than 
lose  her.  He  let  all  other  considerations  slip  away 
from  him;  he  vowed  that  his  chief  longing,  his 
most  passionate  desire,  was  to  marry  her — to  make 
her  his  and  his  only;  and  that  nothing  but  a  chiv- 
alric  sense  of  the  wrong  he  might  be  doing  her 
future  had  made  him  hesitate.  And  then  he  elo 
quently  praised  himself  for  such  a  nicety  of  honour, 
and  tried  to  make  her  understand  how  really  noble 
he  had  been  in  his  self-denial,  and  how  hard  it  was 
for  him  to  be  accused  of  the  very  thing  he  was  try 
ing  to  avoid.  And  he  looked  so  injured,  with  his 
beautiful  eyes  full  of  tears,  that  Denas  was  privately 
ashamed  of  herself,  and  fearful  that  she  had  in  de 
fence  of  her  modesty  gone  beyond  proper  boun 
daries. 

Then  the  subject  of  their  marriage  was  frankly 
discussed.  Roland  was  now  honest  and  earnest 
enough,  and  yet  Denas  felt  that  the  charm  of  the 
great  question  and  answer  had  been  lost  in  consider 
ing  it.  Spontaneity — that  subtle  element  of  all  that 
is  lovely  and  enchanting — had  flown  away  at  the 
first  suspicion  of  constraint.  Some  sweet  illusion 
that  had  always  hung  like  a  halo  over  this  grand 


IS  THERE  A  N  Y  SORRO  W  LIKE  LO  VING  ?    1 2 1 

decision  evaded  her  consciousness;  the  glorious 
ideal  had  become  a  reality  and  lost  all  its  enchant 
ments  in  the  change. 

After  a  long  discussion,  it  was  finally  arranged 
that  Roland  should  meet  Denas  at  a  small  way- 
station  about  four  miles  distant  on  the  following 
Monday  evening.  From  there  they  could  take  a 
train  to  Plymouth,  and  at  Plymouth  there  was  a 
Wesleyan  minister  whom  Denas  had  seen  and  who 
she  felt  sure  would  marry  them.  From  Plymouth 
to  Exeter,  Salisbury,  and  London  was  a  straight 
road,  and  yet  one  which  had  many  asides  and  not 
too  easy  to  follow;  though  as  to  any  fear  of  in 
terruptions,  they  were  hardly  worth  considering. 
Denas  would  leave  her  home  as  usual  on  Monday 
morning,  and  her  parents  would  have  no  expectation 
of  seeing  her  until  the  following  Friday  night. 
By  that  time  she  would  be  settled  in  London — she 
would  have  been  Roland's  wife  for  nearly  four  days. 

These  arrangements  were  made  on  Friday  night, 
and  on  the  following  morning  Denas  went  home 
very  early.  As  she  took  the  cliff-road  she  felt  that 
the  spirit  of  change  had  entered  into  her  heart  and 
her  imagination.  The  familiar  path  had  become 
monotonously  dreary;  she  had  a  kind  of  pity  for  the 
people  who  had  not  her  hope  of  a  speedy  escape 
from  it.  The  desolate  winter  beach,  the  lonely 
boats,  the  closed  cottages — how  inexorably  common 
they  looked!  She  felt  that  there  must  be  some 
thing  in  the  world  better  for  her  than  such  mean 
poverty.  Roland's  words  had  indeed  induced  this 
utter  weariness  and  contempt  for  the  conditions  of 


122  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

her  life,  but  the  conditions  themselves  were  thus 
made  to  give  the  most  eloquent  sanction  to  his  ad 
vice  and  entreaties. 

And  when  a  girl  has  set  her  face  toward  a 
wrong  road,  nothing  is  sadder  in  life  than  the  gen 
eral  certainty  there  is  that  every  small  event  will 
urge  her  forward  on  it.  Usually  the  home-coming 
of  Denas  was  watched  for  and  seen  afar  off,  and 
some  special  dainty  was  simmering  on  the  hob  for 
her  refreshment.  There  was  all  the  pleasant  flurry 
that  belongs  to  love's  warm  welcome.  But  she  had 
delayed  her  return  in  order  to  spend  the  evening 
with  Roland,  and  the  environments  of  the  morning 
had  not  the  same  air  of  easy  happiness  that  attaches 
itself  to  the  evening  hours. 

Joan  was  elbow-deep  in  her  week's  cleaning  and 
baking.  John  had  the  uncomfortable  feeling  of  a 
man  who  knows  himself  in  the  way.  He  had  only 
loitered  around  in  order  to  see  Denas  and  be  sure 
that  all  was  well  with  his  girl.  Then  he  was  a 
trifle  disappointed  that  she  had  not  brought  him 
his  weekly  paper.  He  went  silently  off  to  the  boats, 
and  Denas  was  annoyed  and  reproved  by  his  patient 
look  of  disappointment.  Women  who  are  cleaning 
and  baking  are  often,  what  is  called  by  people  less 
troublesomely  employed,  cross.  Denas  was  sure 
her  mother  was  cross  and  a  little  unreasonable. 
She  had  not  time  to  listen  to  the  village  gossip; 
"  it  would  keep  till  evening,"  she  said. 

Then  she  bid  Denas  hurry  up  and  get  her  father's 
heavy  guernsey  mended  and  his  bottle  of  water 
filled,  ready  for  the  boat.  "  They  be  going  out  on 


IS  THERE  ANY  SORRO  W  LIKE  LO  VING  f    123 

the  noon  ebb,"  she  said,  "and  back  with  the  mid 
night  tide,  and  so  take  thought  for  the  Sabbath;  for 
your  father,  he  do  have  to  preach  over  to  Pendree 
to-morrow,  and  the  sermon  more  on  his  mind  than 
the  fishing — God  help  us!" 

"Will  father  expect  me  to  walk  with  him  to 
Pendree  to-morrow,  mother?  It  is  too  far;  I  can 
not  walk  so  far." 

"  Will  he  expect  you  ?  Not  as  I  know  by,  Denas — 
if  you  don't  want  to  go.  There  be  girls  as  would 
busy  all  to  do  so.  But  there!  it  is  easy  seen  you 
are  neither  fatherish  or  motherish  these  days." 

"  I  wish  father  was  rich  enough  to  stay  at  home 
and  never  go  to  sea  again." 

"  That  be  a  bit  of  nonsense !  Your  father  has  had 
a  taking  to  the  sea  all  his  life;  and  he  never  could 
abide  to  be  boxed  up  on  land.  Aw,  my  dear,  John 
Penelles  is  a  busker  of  a  fisherman!  The  storm 
never  yet  did  blow  that  down-daunted  him!  Tris 
says  it  is  a  great  thing  to  see  your  father  stand  smil 
ing  by  the  wheel  when  the  lightning  be  flying  all 
across  the  elements  and  the  big  waves  be  threatening 
moment  by  moment  to  make  a  mouthful  of  the  boat. 
That  be  the  Penelles'  way,  my  dear;  they  come  from 
a  good  old  haveage;*  but  there,  then,  it  be  whist  poor 
speed  we  make  when  our  tongues  tire  our  hands." 

"  'Tis  like  a  storm  as  it  can  be,  mother." 

"  Aw,  then,  a  young  girl  should  say  brave  words 
or  no  words  at  all.  'Tis  not  your  work  toforespeak 
bad  weather,  and  I  wish  you  wouldn't  do  it,  Denas; 
I  do  for  sure." 

*  Family,  race. 


124  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

In  an  hour  John  came  back  and  had  a  mouthful  of 
meat  and  bread,  but  he  was  hurried  and  anxious, 
and  said  he  had  not  come  yet  to  his  meat-list  and 
would  be  off  about  his  business.  Then  Joan  asked 
him  concerning  the  weather,  and  he  answered : 

"The  gulls  do  fly  high,  and  that  do  mean  a 
breeze;  but  there  be  no  danger  until  they  fly  inland. 
The  boats  will  be  back  before  midnight,  my  dear." 

"  If  the  wind  do  let  them,  John.  Denas  says  it 
be  on  its  contrary  old  ways  again." 

"  My  old  dear,  we  be  safest  when  the  storm-winds 
blow;  for  then  God  do  be  keeping  the  lookout  for 
us.  Joan,  my  wife,  'tis  not  your  business  to  be 
looking  after  the  wind,  nor  mine  either;  for  just 
as  long  as  John  Penelles  trusts  his  boat  to  the  Great. 
Pilot,  it  is  sure  and  certain  to  come  into  harbour 
right  side  up.  Now,  my  dear,  give  me  a  big  jug  of 
milk,  with  a  little  boiling  water  in  it  to  take  off 
the  edge  of  the  cold,  and  then  I'll  away  for  the  gray 
fish — if  so  be  God  fills  the  net  on  either  side  the 
boat  for  us. " 

"  Hark,  father!  The  wind  has  turned  to  a  north 
easter — a  bad  wind  on  this  coast." 

"  Not  it,  Denas.  What  was  it  you  read  me  in 
that  story  paper?  Some  verses  by  a  great  and  good 
man  who  have  been  in  a  stiff  north-easter,  or  else 
he  never  could  have  got  the  true  grip  of  it: 

"  'Welcome,  wild  north-easter  ! 
Come,  and  strong  within  us 
Stir  the  seaman's  blood, 
Bracing  brain  and  sinew; 
Come,  thou  wind  of  God  ! ' " 


JS  THERE  A  N  Y  SORRO  W  LIKE  LO  VING  ?    125 

"  That  is  not  right,  and  that  is  not  the  whole  of 
it,  father." 

"Aw,  'tis  enough,  my  dear;  alt  that  the  soul 
wants,  the  memory  can  hold  to — 'tis  enough. 
Good-bye,  and  God's  keeping." 

He  drank  his  warm  milk,  buttoned  close  his  pilot 
coat,  and  went  off  toward  the  boats.  Denas  had 
no  fear  for  him,  but  Joan  had  not  learned  trust  from 
her  husband's  trust;  the  iron  ring  of  the  wind,  the 
black  sea,  the  wild  sky  with  its  tattered  remnants  of 
clouds,  made  her  full  of  apprehension.  She  hurried 
her  work  and  was  silent  over  it;  while  Denas  sat 
in  the  little  window  sewing,  and  occasionally  letting 
her  eyes  wander  outward  over  the  lonely  beach  and 
the  homely  "  cob"  cottages  of  the  fishers. 

It  was  a  solitary,  lonesome,  dreary-looking  spot 
on  that  bleak  winter  day;  and  life  inside  those 
tiny  houses  was  restricted  and  full  of  limitations. 
Denas  thought  of  them  all,  but  she  weighed  and 
measured  the  life  without  taking  into  account  the 
love  that  sat  on  each  hearthstone — the  love  that 
turned  the  simple  houses  into  homes  and  the  plain, 
hard-working  men  into  husbands  and  sons  and 
brothers  and  lovers  and  saw  that  they  were  good 
men  and  brave  heroes  in  spite  of  their  poverty. 
Love  would  have  altered  her  estimate,  but  she  did 
not  ask  love  to  count  with  her.  She  only  thought: 
"  If  I  did  not  know  of  a  better  life,  of  a  life  full 
of  pleasure  and  change,  I  might  go  and  live  with 
Tris  and  dree  my  days  out  with  him;  but  I  am  now 
too  wise  to  be  so  easily  satisfied.  I  want  a  house 
finer  than  Elizabeth's;  I  want  grand  dresses,  and 


126  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

plenty  of  servants,  and  a  carriage;  and  Roland  says 
all  these  things  are  in  my  voice.  Besides,  I  am  far 
too  pretty  to  be  a  fisherman's  wife  and  mend  guern 
seys,  and  make  nets,  and  bake  fish-pies  every  day  in 
the  year." 

Far  too  pretty!  After  all,  this  was  the  deepest 
thought  in  her  foolish  heart.  At  first,  Roland's 
pictures  of  her  in  picturesque  costume,  singing  to 
enthusiastic  crowds,  had  rather  terrified  her;  but  she 
had  let  the  idea  enter  her  mind,  it  had  become 
familiar,  then  alluring,  and  finally  a  delightful 
dream.  She  occupied  many  hours  in  devising  cos 
tumes,  in  imagining  herself  in  their  colours  and 
forms,  and  in  considering  how  the  homage  she  would 
receive  would  be  most  nobly  borne  as  it  affected 
Roland.  Of  course  she  would  throw  all  at  his  feet — 
all  the  admiration,  all  the  love,  all  the  gold  that 
came  to  her. 

She  looked  at  the  grave-faced,  preoccupied  moth 
er  and  wished  she  could  talk  with  her  about  her 
hopes.  Roland  had  expressed  himself  as  greatly 
hurt  by  this  inability.  "Most  mothers,  Denas," 
he  said,  "would  be  only  too  happy  to  anticipate 
such  a  prospect  for  their  daughter,  and  you  ought  to 
have  had  a  mother's  sympathy  and  help  at  this 
great  epoch  of  your  life.  Poor  girl!  it  is  too  bad 
that  you  are  obliged  to  bear  the  whole  weight  of 
such  a  movement  yourself!" 

So  Denas  looked  at  her  mother,  and  felt  ag 
grieved  by  the  strict  creed  which  ruled  her  life. 
Methodists  were  so  very  narrow.  She  remembered 
her  father's  anger  at  a  mere  proposal  of  Miss  Tre- 


75  THERE  ANY  SORRO  W  LIKE  LO  VING ?    127 

sham  to  take  Denas  to  a  theatre  with  her.  She  knew 
that  he  believed  a  theatre  to  be  the  open  door  to 
hell;  and  that  the  mere  idea  of  men  and  women, 
either  with  souls  saved  or  souls  to  be  saved,  danc 
ing,  filled  him  with  shame  and  anger.  Yet  she 
was  going  to  sing  in  a  theatre  if  possible;  and  Ro 
land  had  said  a  great  deal  about  the  fisher  dances 
of  various  countries  and  how  effective  they  would 
be  with  the  songs. 

At  first  she  had  refused  to  tolerate  the  idea;  she 
could  not  imagine  herself  dancing  to  amuse  a 
crowd  of  strangers — dancing  for  money.  She  thought 
of  Herodias  dancing  the  Baptist's  head  off,  and  she 
said  solemnly  to  Roland,  and  with  the  utmost  sin 
cerity,  that  she  dared  not  dance.  It  was  the  broad 
road  to  perdition.  Roland  had  not  cared  to  argue 
with  such  a  prejudice.  He  knew  well  that  the 
dancing  would  follow  the  public  singing,  as  naturally 
as  the  singing  followed  the  professional  orchestra. 
But  he  said  then,  as  he  said  frequently  afterward: 
"  It  is  such  a  pity,  Denas,  you  have  not  a  mother 
you  can  advise  with  and  who  could  help  and  en 
courage  you.  It  just  locks  a  girl  up  in  a  box  to  be 
born  a  Methodist!" 

This  attitude  of  Roland's  was  a  very  cruel  one. 
It  taught  Denas  to  feel  that  her  secrecy  was  not  her 
fault.  She  continually  told  herself  that  she  would 
have  been  glad  to  talk  over  her  future  plans  with 
her  parents  if  they  would  only  have  listened  to  her; 
that  it  was  not  her  fault  if  they  were  unreasonable 
and  bigoted — not  her  fault  if  her  mind  had  grown 
beyond  her  surroundings;  that  her  father  and 


128  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

mother  ought  to  consider  that  her  education  and 
her  companionship  with  Elizabeth  Tresham  had  led 
naturally  to  the  craving  for  a  wider  life;  and  that  if 
they  give  the  first  they  ought  in  common  justice  to 
be  ready  to  consider  the  consequences  with  her. 

"  But  they  will  not,"  she  thought  angrily.  "  They 
want  me  to  settle  down  and  be  content  with  Tris 
Penrose.  I  dare  not  tell  them  that  Roland  loves 
me.  Roland  dare  not  tell  them  either.  I  cannot 
say  a  word  to  them  about  my  voice  and  the  money 
it  may  make.  Roland  says  any  reasonable  father 
and  mother  would  be  quite  excited  at  the  prospect 
and  glad  to  go  to  London  with  me.  But  will  my 
father  and  mother  do  so?  Oh,  no!  In  order  to  do 
myself  justice  I  am  obliged  to  run  away.  It  is  too 
bad!  Any  sensible  person  would  feel  sorry  for  me." 

With  such  specious  reasoning  she  satisfied  her 
conscience,  and  the  afternoon  wore  away  in  gather 
ing  gloom  and  fierce  scuds  of  rain.  It  was  nearly 
dark  at  four  o'clock,  and  she  rose  and  brought  a 
small  round  table  to  the  hearth  and  began  to  put 
on  it  the  tea-cups  and  the  bread  and  butter.  As 
she  did  so  Joan  entered  the  room.  Her  arms  were 
full  of  clean  clothing,  but  glancing  at  the  table  she 
threw  them  above  her  head,  and  regardless  of  the 
scattered  garments  cried  out: 

"Denas!  Look  to  the  loaf!  Some  poor  ship  be 
in  distress!  Pray  God  it  be  not  your  father's." 

Then  Denas  with  trembling  hands  lifted  the  loaf, 
which  she  had  inadvertently  laid  down  wrong  side 
upward,  and  placed  it,  with  a  "  God  save  the  ship 
and  all  in  her,"  in  the  proper  position.  But  Joan 


75  THERE  ANY  SORRO  W  LIKE  LO  VING ?    129 

was  thoroughly  unnerved  by  the  ominous  incident, 
and  she  sat  down  with  her  apron  over  her  head, 
rocking  herself  slowly  to  her  inaudible  prayer ;  while 
Denas,  with  a  resentful  feeling  she  did  not  try  to 
understand,  gathered  up  the  pieces  of  linen  and 
flannel  her  mother  had  apparently  forgotten. 

Into  this  scene  stepped  a  young  man  in  the  Bur- 
rell  Court  livery.  He  gave  Denas  a  letter,  but  re 
fused  the  offer  of  a  cup  of  tea,  because  "  the  storm 
was  hurrying  landward,  and  he  would  be  busy  all 
to  catch  the  cliff-top  before  it  caught  him." 

Joan  took  no  notice  of  the  interruption,  and 
Denas  felt  her  trouble  over  such  a  slight  affair  as 
a  turned  loaf  to  be  almost  a  personal  offence.  In  a 
short  time  she  said:  "Mother,  your  tea  is  waiting; 
and  I  have  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Burrell,  if  you  care 
anything  about  it." 

"Aw,  my  girl,  I  care  little  for  Mrs.  Burrell's  let 
ters  to-night.  She  be  well  and  happy,  no  doubt; 
and  my  old  dear  is  in  the  wind's  teeth  and  pulling 
hard  against  a  frosty  death." 

"  Father  knows  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  I  think 
it  is  cruel  hard  of  him  to  take  such  risks." 

"  And  where  will  the  fishers  be  who  do  take  no 
risks?  Fish  be  plenty  just  before  a  storm,  and  the 
London  market-boat  waiting  for  the  take;  and  why 
wouldn't  the  men  do  their  duty,  danger  or  no  dan 
ger?" 

"  I  would  rather  die  than  be  a  fisher's  wife." 
"Aw,  my  girl,  the  heart  for  one  isn't  in  you." 
"  I  never  saw  you  so  nervous  before,  mother." 
"Nervous!     Nervous!     No,  my  dear,  it  be  down- 
9 


130  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

right  fear.  I  never  knew  what  fear  was  before. 
I've  gone  down-daunted — that  be  the  trouble,  Denas. 
I've  had  such  dreams  lately — such  creepy-like, 
ghastly  old  dreams  of  wandering  in  wayless  ways 
covered  with  water;  of  seeing  the  hearth-place  full 
of  cold  ashes  and  the  lights  put  out;  and  of  carry 
ing  the  'Grief  Child'  in  my  breast,  a  puny,  wailing 
bit  of  a  baby  that  I  could  not  be  rid  of,  nor  yet 
get  away  from — sights  and  sounds  after  me  night 
and  day  that  do  give  me  a  turn  to  think  of;  and 
what  they  do  mean  I  haven't  mind-light  for  to  see. 
God  help  us!  But  I  do  fear  they  be  signs  of  trouble. 
And  who  goes  into  the  way  of  trouble  but  your 
father?  May  God  save  him  from  it!"  . 

"Trouble  is  no  new  thing,  mother." 

"  That  be  the  truth.  Trouble  be  old  as  the  floods 
of  Dava." 

"And  it  does  seem  to  me  religious  people,  who 
are  always  talking  about  trusting  God,  are  a  poor, 
unhappy  kind.  If  you  do  believe,  mother,  that 
God  is  the  good  Father  you  say  He  is — if  you  do 
think  He  has  led  millions  to  His  own  heavenly 
city — I  wonder  at  you  always  fearing  that  He  is 
going  to  forget  you  and  let  you  lose  your  way  and 
get  into  all  kinds  of  danger  and  sorrow." 

"  There,  then !  You  be  right  for  once,  my  dear. 
Your  father,  he  do  serve  the  Lord  with  gladness, 
but  a  wife's  heart  is  nothing  but  a  nest  of  fear. 
And  it  be  true  that  I  do  not  think  so  much  of  serv 
ing  the  Lord  as  of  having  the  Lord  serve  me;  and 
when  it  is  me  and  always  me,  and  your  heart  be 
top-full  of  your  dismal  old  self,  how  can  you  serve 


75  THERE  ANY  SORRO  W  LIKE  LO  VING  ?    131 

God  with  gladness  ?  You  be  right  to  give  me  a  set- 
down,  Denas.  Come,  now,  what  is  Mrs.  Burrell's 
letter  about?  I  be  pleased  and  ready  to  hear  it 
now,  my  dear." 

"  This  is  what  she  says,  mother: 

"  '  DEAR  DENAS: — I  am  troubled  about  Roland  and 
you.  I  want  very  much  to  talk  things  over  with 
you.  If  I  offended  you  when  you  were  at  the  Court, 
I  am  very  sorry  for  it.  Come  and  spend  a  day  next 
week  with  me.  I  will  send  the  carriage  to  Miss 
Mohun's. 

"  Your  friend, 

"  ELIZABETH  BURRELL.  " 

"  Why  is  she  troubled  about  you  and  that  young 
man  ?  Is  he  not  in  London  now  ?" 

"  He  is  here,  and  there,  and  everywhere.  Would 
you  go  to  the  Court  again,  mother?  I  told  you  how 
Elizabeth  behaved  to  me." 

"  Aw,  then  she  had  the  bride-fever,  my  dear. 
She  will  be  come  to  her  senses  by  this  time.  Yes, 
yes,  if  you  aren't  very  sure  how  to  act,  take  the 
kind  way  rather  than  the  ill  way;  you  will  be 
mostly  right,  my  dear." 

Of  course  Denas  had  no  idea  of  taking  either  way, 
but  the  invitation  furnished  her  with  a  reason  for 
wearing  her  best  dress  on  Monday;  and  she  had 
been  much  exercised  to  find  out  a  cause  for  this 
unusual  finery.  She  felt  quite  excited  over  this  for 
tunate  incident,  and  she  could  not  avoid  a  smile 
when  she  reflected  that  Elizabeth  had  so  opportunely 
furnished  her  with  the  very  thing  she  wanted. 


132  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

Then  for  an  hour  or  two  Joan  quite  controlled 
herself.  She  asked  after  the  news  of  the  upper 
town,  and  listened  with  interest  to  her  daughter's 
description  of  the  dresses  she  was  helping  to  fash 
ion.  From  this  topic  they  glided  naturally  to 
Christmas  and  its  coming  festivities,  and  Joan 
talked  a  good  deal  of  the  new  silver  watch  they 
had  decided  to  give  John  as  a  Christmas  gift,  and 
so  for  some  time  she  was  as  full  of  plans  and  happy 
hopes  as  a  little  child  could  be. 

She  did  not  notice  that  after  a  while  Denas  grew 
weary  and  constrained,  that  speech  seemed  a  trouble 
to  her,  that  she  lost  herself  frequently  in  reverie, 
and  was  as  nearly  nervous  as  she  had  accused  her 
mother  of  being.  But  the  conversation  finally 
flagged  so  much  that  Joan  began  to  worry  about 
the  weather  once  more.  The  wind  was  now  fright 
ful,  the  icy  rain  rattled  against  the  windows,  and  at 
the  open  door  Joan  could  hear  billow  on  billow, 
crash  on  crash,  shrieking  blast  on  shrieking  blast. 
She  was  unable  to  preserve  her  cheerfulness.  Like 
all  strong  hearts  in  anxiety,  she  became  silent.  The 
platitudes  of  Denas,  dropped  without  interest,  an 
noyed  her;  she  only  moved  her  head  in  reply. 
.  Midnight  came,  and  no  boats.  There  was  a 
pitifully  frequent  opening  of  cottage  doors,  and  the 
sudden  flashes  of  fire  and  candle  light  that  followed 
revealed  always  some  white,  fearful  face  thrust  out 
into  the  black  night,  in  the  hope  of  hearing  the 
shouts  of  the  home-coming  men.  Joan  could  not 
keep  away  from  the  door;  and  the  yawning  of 
Denas,  her  shifting  movements,  her  uncontrolled 


75  THERE  ANY  SORRO  W  LIKE  LO  VING  ?    133 

sleepiness,  irritated  Joan.  In  great  anxiety,  com 
panionship  not  perfectly  sympathetic  is  irritating; 
mere  mortals  quiver  under  its  infliction.  For  Denas 
could  not  perceive  any  special  reason  for  unusual 
fear;  she  longed  to  go  to  bed  and  sleep,  as  she  had 
done  many  a  time  before  under  the  same  circum 
stances.  She  laid  the  Bible  on  the  table  before 
Joan  and  said:  "  Won't  you  read  a  psalm  and  lie 
down  a  bit,  mother?" 

"  No.  Read  for  yourself,  and  to  bed  then  if  you 
want  to  go." 

Denas  opened  the  book.  Her  father's  mark  was 
in  the  psalms,  and  she  began  to  read  to  herself. 

Joan's  face  was  beneath  her  blue  apron.  David's 
words  did  not  interpret  her  at  this  hour;  only  her 
own  lips  could  speak  for  her  own  sorrow  and  fear. 
There  was  a  deep  stillness  in  the  house.  Outside 
the  tempest  raged  wildly.  It  seemed  to  Joan  as  if 
hours  passed  in  that  interval  of  heart-trembling; 
she  was  almost  shocked  when  the  old  clock  gave  its 
long  whirring  warning  and  then  struck  only  one. 
Her  first  look  was  to  the  fire.  It  wanted  replenish 
ing.  Her  next  was  at  Denas.  The  girl  was  fast 
asleep.  Her  hands  were  across  the  open  Bible, 
her  face  was  dropped  upon  them.  Joan  touched 
her  and  said  not  unkindly: 

"A  little  bit  of  Bible-reading  do  send  people  to 
sleep  quick,  don't  it,  Denas?" 

"I  was  so  tired,  mother." 

"  Aw,  my  dear,  you  be  no  worse  than  Christian 
in  the  'Pilgrim's  Progress. '  He  did  go  to  sleep,  too, 
when  he  was  reading  his  roll.  Come,  my  girl,  it  is 


134  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

your  time  for  bed.  Sitting  up  won't  help  you  to 
bear  trouble." 

"  Mother,  won't  it  be  time  enough  to  bear  trouble 
when  it  is  really  here  to  be  borne?" 

"  It  do  seem  as  if  it  would.  Love  be  a  fearful 
looker-forward.  Go  to  bed,  my  girl ;  maybe  you 
will  sleep  sorrow  away." 

So  Denas  went  to  bed  and  did  not  awake  until  the 
grey  light  of  the  stormy  morning  was  over  every 
thing.  She  could  hear  the  murmur  of  voices  in  the 
living-room,  and  she  dressed  quickly  and  went 
there.  John  Penelles  sat  by  the  fire  drinking  hot 
tea.  His  hair  had  yet  bits  of  ice  in  it,  his  face 
still  had  the  awful  shadow  that  is  cast  by  the  pass- 
ing-by  of  death.  Denas  put  her  arms  around  his 
neck  and  kissed  him;  she  kissed  him  until  she  be 
gan  to  sob,  and  he  drew  her  upon  his  knee,  and 
held  her  to  his  breast,  and  said  in  a  whisper  to 
her: 

"  Ten  men  drowned,  my  dear,  and  three  frozen  to 
death;  but  through  God's  mercy  father  slipped  away 
from  an  ugly  fate." 

"Oh,  father,  how  could  you  bear  it?" 

"  God  help  us,  Denas,  we  must  bear  what  is  sent. " 

"What  a  night  it  has  been!  How  did  you  live 
through  it?" 

"It's  dogged  as  does  it  and  lives  through  it. 
It's  dogged  as  does  anything,  my  dear,  all  over  the 
world.  I  stuck  to  the  boat  and  the  boat  stuck  to 
me.  God  Almighty  Himself  can't  help  a  coward." 

The  storm  continued  all  day,  but  began  to  slacken 
in  intensity  at  sunset.  There  was  of  course  no 


75  THERE  ANY  SORRO  W  LIKE  LO  VING  ?    1 35 

service  at  Pendree.  John,  even  if  he  had  not  been 
so  worn  out,  could  not  have  reached  the  place  in 
such  a  storm,  either  by  land  or  sea.  But  the  neigh 
bours,  without  seeming  premeditation,  gathered  in 
John's  cottage  at  night,  and  he  opened  his  Bible 
and  read  aloud: 

"Terrors  take  hold  on  him,  as  waters;  a  tempest 
stealeth  him  away  in  the  night.  The  east  wind 
carrieth  him  away,  and  he  departeth;  and  as  a 
storm  hurleth  him  out  of  his  place." 

And  it  was  to  these  words,  with  their  awful  ap 
plication  to  the  wicked,  that  Denas  listened  the  last 
night  she  intended  to  spend  under  her  father's  roof. 
John's  discourses  were  nearly  always  like  his 
nature,  tender  and  persuasive;  and  this  terrible 
sermon  wove  itself  in  and  out  of  her  wandering 
thoughts  like  a  black  scroll  in  a  gay  vesture.  It 
pained  and  troubled  her,  though  she  did  not  con 
sider  why  it  should  do  so.  After  the  meeting 
was  over  John  was  very  weary;  but  he  would  not 
go  to  bed  until  he  had  eaten  supper.  He  "  wanted 
his  little  maid  to  sit  near  him  for  half-an-hour,"  he 
said.  And  he  held  her  hand  in  his  own  hand,  and 
gave  her  such  looks  of  perfect  love  and  blessed 
her  so  solemnly  and  sweetly  when  at  length  he  left 
her  that  she  began  to  sob  again  and  to  stand  on 
tiptoe  that  she  might  throw  her  arms  around  his 
neck  and  touch  his  lips  with  hers  once  more. 

Her  kisses  were  wet  with  her  tears,  and  they  made 
John's  heart  soft  and  gentle  as  a  baby's.  "  She  be 
the  fondest  little  maid,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "  She 
be  the  fondest  little  maid!  I  could  take  a  whole 


136  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

year  to  praise  her,  Joan,  and  then  I  could  not  say 
enough." 

In  reality,  the  last  two  days,  with  their  excess  of 
vital  emotions,  had  worn  Denas  out  Never  before 
had  the  life  into  which  she  was  born  looked  so  un 
lovely  to  her.  She  preferred  the  twitter  and  twad 
dle  of  Priscilla's  workroom  to  the  intense  realities 
of  an  existence  always  verging  on  eternity.  She 
dared  to  contrast  those  large,  heroic  fishers,  with 
their  immovable  principles  and  their  constant  fight 
with  all  the  elemental  forces  for  their  daily  bread, 
with  Roland  Tresham;  and  to  decide  that  Roland's 
delicate  beauty,  pretty,  persuasive  manners,  and 
fashionable  clothing  were  vastly  superior  attributes. 
So  she  was  glad  when  the  morning  came,  for  she 
was  weary  of  enduring  what  need  no  longer  be 
endured. 

It  still  rained,  but  she  put  on  her  best  clothing, 
and  Joan  was  not  pleased  at  her  for  doing  so.  She 
thought  she  might  come  home  some  night  when  the 
rain  was  over  and  change  her  dress  for  the  visit  to 
Burrell  Court.  This  difference  of  opinion  made 
their  last  meal  together  a  silent  one;  for  John  was 
in  a  deep  sleep  and  Joan  would  not  have  him  dis 
turbed.  Denas  just  opened  the  door  and  stood  a 
moment  looking  at  the  large,  placid  face  on  the 
white  pillow.  As  she  turned  away,  it  seemed  as  if 
she  cut  a  piece  out  of  her  heart;  she  had  a  mo 
mentary  spasm  of  real  physical  pain. 

Joan  had  not  yet  recovered  from  her  night  of  ter 
ror.  Her  face  was  grey,  her  eyes  heavy,  her  heart 
still  beating  and  aching  with  some  unintelligible 


IS  THERE  ANY  SORRO  W  LIKE  LO  VING ?    13? 

sense  of  wrong  or  grief.  And  she  looked  at  her 
child  with  such  a  dumb,  sorrowful  inquiry  that 
Denas  sat  down  near  her  and  put  her  head  on  her 
mother's  breast  and  asked:  "What  is  it,  mother? 
Have  I  done  anything  to  grieve  you?" 

"  Not  as  I  know  by,  dear.  I  wish  you  hadn't 
worn  your  best  dress — dresses  do  cost  money,  don't 
they  now?" 

"Yes,  they  do,  mother.  There  then!  Shall  I 
take  it  off  ?  I  will,  to  please  you,  mother." 

"  No,  no!  The  will  be  as  good  as  the  deed  from 
my  little  girl.  Maybe  you  are  right,  too.  Dress 
do  go  a  long  way  to  pleasing." 

"Then  good-bye.  Kiss  me,  mother!  Kiss  me 
twice!  Kiss  me  again,  for  father!" 

So  Joan  kissed  her  child.  She  smoothed  her  hair, 
and  straightened  her  collar,  and  put  in  a  missed 
button,  and  so  held  her  close  for  a  few  moments, 
and  kissed  her  again;  and  when  Denas  had  reached 
the  foot  of  the  cliff,  she  was  still  watching  her  with 
the  look  on  her  face — the  look  of  a  mother  who 
feels  as  if  she  still  held  her  child  in  her  arms. 

O  love!  love!  love!  Is  there  any  sorrow  in 
life  like  loving? 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A     SEA     OF     SORROW. 

"  Time  the  shuttle  drives;  but  we 
Give  to  every  thread  its  hue 

And  elect  our  destiny." 

— BURLEIGH. 

"  Life  does  not  make  us,  we  make  life." 

"  He  gave  me  trust,  and  trust  has  given  me  means 
Once  to  be  false  for  all." 

— DRYDEN. 

"  He  at  the  news 

Heart-struck,  with  chilling  gripe  of  sorrow,  stood, 
That  all  his  senses  bound." 

— MILTON. 

IT  had  been  raining  a  little  when  Denas  bade  her 
mother  farewell,  but  by  the  time   she    reached 
the  top  of  the  cliff  the  rain  had  become  fog.     She 
stood  still  awhile  and  turned  her  face  to  the  sea, 
and  saw  one  drift  after  another  roll  inland,  veiling 
the  beach,    and  the   boats,    and  the  cottages,   and 
leaving  the  whole  scene  a  spectacle  of  desolation. 
It  affected  her  painfully.     The  love  and  hope  in 
her   heart  did  not   lift  her  above    the    depressing 
influence  of  that  mournful   last  view  of  her  home. 
Was  the  thing  that  she  was  going  to  do  worth  while  ? 
Was  anything  in  life  worth  while?     The  little  town 
had  a  half-awakened  Monday-morning  look.     Every 
138 


A    SEA   OF  SORROW.  139 

one  seemed  to  be  beginning  another  week  with  an 
"Oh,  dear  me!"  sort  of  feeling.  Miss  Priscilla  was 
just  dressing  her  shop  window,  and  as  cross  as  crossed 
sticks  over  her  employment.  She  said  that  Denas 
was  late,  and  wondered  "  for  goodness'  sake  why 
she  was  so  dressed  up." 

It  gave  Denas  a  kind  of  spiteful  pleasure  to  an 
swer:  "She  was  dressed  to  go  to  Burrell  Court  and 
spend  a  day  with  Mrs.  Burrell.  When  she  sent  Mr. 
Burrell  word  the  day  she  would  come  the  carriage 
would  call  for  her." 

"  If  you  mean  the  day  I  can  spare  you  best,  I  can 
not  spare  you  at  all  this  week.  There  now!" 

"I  am  not  thinking  of  you  sparing  me,  Priscilla. 
I  am  waiting  for  a  fine  day." 

"Upon  my  word!  Am  I  your  mistress  or  are 
you  mine  ?  And  what  is  more,  that  Roland  Tresham 
is  not  coming  here  again.  I  have  some  conscience, 
thank  goodness!  and  I  will  not  sanction  such  ways 
and  such  carryings  on  any  longer.  He  is  a  dishon 
ourable  young  man." 

"Has  he  not  paid  you,  Priscilla?" 

Before  Priscilla  could  find  the  scathing  words  she 
required,  an  hostler  from  the  Black  Lion  entered 
the  shop  and  put  a  letter  into  the  hand  of  Denas. 

Priscilla  turned  angrily  on  the  man  and  ordered 
him  to  leave  her  shop  directly.  Then  she  said: 
"Denas  Penelles,  you  are  a  bad  girl!  I  am  going 
to  write  to  Mrs.  Burrell  this  day,  and  to  your  father 
and  mother  also." 

"I  would  not  be  a  fool  if  I  was  you,  Priscilla." 

Denas  was  reading  the  letter,  and  softly  smiling 


14°  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

as  she  uttered  the  careless  words.  For  indeed 
affairs  were  at  a  point  now  where  Priscilla's  inter 
ference  would  hurt  herself  more  than  others.  The 
note  was,  of  course,  from  Roland.  It  told  her  that 
all  was  ready,  and  that  the  weather  being  so  bad  as 
to  render  walking  very  tiresome  and  miserable,  he 
had  engaged  a  carriage  which  would  be  waiting  for 
her  on  the  west  side  of  the  parish  church  at  seven 
o'clock  that  night;  and  her  lover  would  be  waiting 
with  it,  and  if  Roland  was  to  be  believed,  everything 
joyful  and  marvellous  was  waiting  also. 

This  letter  was  the  only  sunshine  throughout  the 
day.  Priscilla's  bad  temper  was  in  the  ascendant, 
both  in  the  shop  and  in  the  workroom.  She  scolded 
Denas  for  working  so  slowly,  she  made  her  unrip 
whatever  she  did.  She  talked  at  Denas  in  talking 
to  the  other  girls,  and  the  girls  all  echoed  and 
shadowed  their  mistress'  opinions  and  conduct. 
Denas  smiled,  and  her  smile  had  in  it  a  mysterious 
satisfaction  which  all  felt  to  be  offensive.  But  for 
the  certain  advent  of  seven  o'clock,  the  day  would 
have  been  intolerable. 

About  half-past  six  she  put  on  her  hat  and  cloak, 
and  Miss  Priscilla  ordered  her  to  take  them  off. 
"You  are  not  going  outside  my  house  to-night, 
Denas  Penelles,"  she  said.  "If  you  sew  until  ten 
o'clock,  you  will  not  have  done  a  day's  work." 

"  I  am  going  home,  Priscilla.  I  will  work  for 
you  no  more.  You  have  behaved  shamefully  to  me 
all  day,  and  I  am  going  home." 

Priscilla  had  not  calculated  on  such  a  result,  and 
it  was  inconvenient  to  her.  She  began  to  talk  more 


A    SEA    OF  SORROW.  141 

reasonably,  but  Denas  would  listen  to  no  apology. 
It  suited  her  plans  precisely  to  leave  Priscilla  in 
anger,  for  if  Priscilla  thought  she  had  gone  home 
she  would  not  of  course  send  any  word  to  her  parents. 
So  she  left  the  workroom  in  a  pretended  passion, 
and  shut  the  shop  door  after  her  with  a  clash  that 
made  Miss  Priscilla  give  a  little  scream  and  the 
forewoman  ejaculate: 

"Well,  there  then!  A  good  riddance  of  such  a 
bad  piece!  I  do  say  that  for  sure." 

Very  little  did  Denas  care  for  the  opinions  of 
Priscilla  and  her  work-maidens.  She  knew  that  the 
word  of  any  girl  there  could  be  bought  for  a  day's 
wage;  she  was  as  willing  they  should  speak  evil  as 
well  of  her.  Yet  it  was  with  a  heart  full  of  anger  at 
the  day's  petty  slights  and  wrongs  that  she  hastened 
to  the  place  mentioned  by  Roland.  As  she  turned 
into  the  street  at  one  end  the  carriage  entered  it  at 
the  other.  It  came  to  meet  her;  it  stopped,  and 
Roland  leaped  to  her  side.  In  another  moment  she 
was  in  the  carriage.  Roland's  arm  was  around  her; 
he  was  telling  her  how  grateful  he  was;  how  happy! 
how  proud!  He  was  promising  her  a  thousand 
pleasures,  giving  her  hope  after  hope;  vowing  an 
unalterable  and  never-ending  love. 

And  Denas  surrendered  herself  to  his  charm. 
After  the  last  three  dreadful  days,  it  did  seem  a 
kind  of  heaven  to  be  taken  right  out  of  a  life  so 
hard  and  unlovely  and  so  full  of  painful  emotions; 
to  be  kissed  and  flattered  and  to  be  treated  like  a 
lady.  The  four  miles  she  had  expected  to  walk 
went  like  a  happy  dream;  she  was  sorry  when  they 


142  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

were  passed  and  the  bare  railway  station  was 
reached.  It  was  but  a  small  place  lit  by  a  single 
lamp,  but  Roland  improvised  a  kind  of  couch,  and 
told  her  to  sleep  while  he  watched  and  smoked  a 
cigar. 

In  a  short  time  he  returned,  and  said  that  there 
was  no  train  to  Plymouth  until  midnight;  but  an 
express  for  London  would  pass  in  half  an  hour,  and 
they  had  better  take  it.  Denas  thought  a  moment, 
and  answered  with  a  decision  that  made  Roland  look 
curiously  at  her:  "No.  I  will  not  go  to  London 
to  be  married.  I  know  the  preacher  at  Plymouth. 
We  will  wait  for  the  Plymouth  train."  It  was  not 
a  very  pleasant  wait.  It  was  cold  and  damp  and 
inexpressibly  dreary,  and  Roland  could  not  avoid 
showing  that  he  was  disappointed  in  not  taking  the 
London  train. 

But  the  hours  go  by,  no  matter  to  what  measure, 
and  midnight  came,  and  the  train  came,  and  the 
comfort  and  privacy  of  a  first-class  carriage  restored 
the  lover-like  attitude  of  the  runaways.  Early  in 
the  morning  they  reached  Plymouth,  and  as  soon  as 
possible  they  sought  the  house  of  the  Wesleyan 
preacher  It  stood  close  to  the  chapel  and  was 
readily  found.  A  written  message  on  Roland's 
card  brought  him  at  once  to  the  parlour.  He  looked 
with  interest  and  curiosity  and  some  disapproval 
at  the  couple. 

"Mr.  Tresham,"  he  said,  glancing  at  the  card 
which  he  held  in  his  hand,  "you  wish  me  to  marry 

you.  I  think "  He  was  going  to  make  some 

inquiries  or  objections,  but  he  caught  the  expres- 


A    SEA    OF  SORROW.  143 

sion  of  anxiety  in  the  face  of  Denas,  and  then  he 
looked  carefully  at  her  and  asked: 

"  Have  I  not  seen  you  before  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  when  you  preached  at  St.  Penfer  last 
summer.  I  am  the  daughter  of  John  Penelles. " 

"The  fisher  Penelles?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Oh!  Yes,  Mr.  Tresham,  I  will  mirry  you  at 
once.  It  will  be  the  best  thing,  under  the  circum 
stances,  I  am  sure.  Follow  me,  sir."  As  they  went 
along  a  narrow  covered  way,  he  called  a  servant  and 
gave  her  an  order,  and  then  opening  a  door  ushered 
the  would-be  bride  and  bridegroom  into  the  chapel, 
and  straight  to  the  communion  rail. 

Denas  knelt  down  there,  and  for  a  few  moments 
lost  herself  in  sincere  prayer.  After  all,  in  great 
emotion  prayer  was  her  native  tongue.  When  she 
stood  up  and  lifted  her  eyes,  the  preacher's  wife 
and  two  daughters  were  at  her  side,  and  the  preacher 
himself  was  at  the  communion  table,  with  the  open 
book  in  his  hand.  The  bare  chapel  in  the  grey  day 
light;  the  strange  tones  of  the  preacher's  voice  in 
the  empty  place;  the  strange  women  at  her  side — it 
was  all  like  a  dream.  She  felt  afraid  to  move  or 
to  look  up.  She  answered  as  she  was  told,  and  she 
heard  Roland  answer  also.  But  his  voice  did  not 
sound  real  and  happy,  and  when  he  took  the  plain 
gold  ring  from  the  preacher's  hand  and  said  after 
him.  "With  this  ring  I  thee  wed,"  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  her  husband's  face.  It  was  pale  and  som 
bre.  No  answering  flash  of  love  met  hers,  and  she 
felt  it  difficult  to  restrain  her  tears. 


144  A    SINGER  FROM    THE   SEA. 

In  truth,  Roland  was  smitten  with  a  sudden  irres 
olution  that  was  almost  regret.  As  Denas  knelt 
praying,  there  had  come  to  his  mind  many  a  dream 
lie  had  had  of  his  own  wedding.  He  had  always 
thought  of  it  in  some  old  church  that  would  be  made 
to  glow  with  bride-roses  and  ring  with  bride- 
music.  Young  maidens  and  men  of  high  degree 
were  to  tread  the  wedding  march  with  him.  Danc 
ing  and  feasting,  gay  company  and  rich  presents, 
were  to  add  glory  to  some  fair  girl  wife,  whom  he 
would  choose  because,  of  all  others,  she  was  the 
loveliest,  and  the  wealthiest,  and  the  most  to  be 
desired. 

And  then  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  girl  at  his  feet, 
in  her  plain  dark  dress  crushed  and  disordered  with 
a  night's  travel;  the  bare,  empty  chapel;  the  utter 
want  of  music,  flowers,  company,  or  social  support 
of  any  kind;  the  small,  rigid-looking  preacher  with 
out  surplice  or  insignia  of  holy  office;  the  half-ex 
pressed  disapproval  on  the  countenances  of  the  three 
women  present  as  witnesses — it  was  not  thus  Eliza 
beth  was  married;  it  was  not  thus  he  himself  ought 
to  have  been  married.  How  the  surroundings  might 
affect  Denas  he  did  not  even  think;  and  yet  the 
poor  girl  also  had  had  her  dreams,  which  this  cold, 
dreary  reality  in  no  measure  redeemed. 

But  the  ring  was  on  her  finger;  she  was  Roland's 
wife.  Nothing  could  ever  make  her  less.  She 
heard  the  preacher  say:  "  Come  into  the  vestry,  Mrs. 
Tresham,  and  sign  the  register."  And  then  Roland 
gave  her  his  arm  and  kissed  her,  and  she  went  with 
the  little  company,  and  took  the  pen  from  her  hus- 


A    SEA    OF  SORROW.  145 

band's  hand,  and  wrote  boldly  for  the  last  time  her 
maiden  name: 

"  Denasia  Penelles. " 

Roland  looked  inquiringly  at  her,  and  she  smiled 
and  answered :  "  That  is  right,  dear.  I  was  christened 
Denasia." 

Very  small  things  pleased  Roland,  and  the  new 
name  delighted  him.  All  the  way  to  London  he 
spoke  frequently  of  it.  "  You  are  now  Denasia,  my 
darling,"  he  said.  "Let  the  old  name  slip  with 
the  old  life.  Besides,  Denasia  is  an  excellent  pub 
lic  name.  You  can  sing  under  it  splendidly.  Such 
a  noble  name!  Why  did  you  let  everyone  spoil  it?" 

"  Everyone  thought  Denas  was  my  name.  Father 
and  mother  always  called  me  Denas,  and  people 
forgot  that  it  was  only  part  of  my  name.  Fisher- 
folk  have  short  names,  or  nicknames." 

"But,  really,  Denasia  Penelles  is  a  very  distin 
guished  name.  A  splendid  one  for  the  public. " 

"  Why  not  Denasia  Tresham  ?" 

"  Because,  my  dear,  there  are  Treshams  living  in 
London  who  would  be  very  angry  at  me  if  I  put 
their  name  on  a  bill-board.  The  Treshams  are  a 
very  proud  family." 

"  Roland,  it  would  kill  my  father  if  I  put  his 
name  on  anything  that  refers  to  a  theatre.  You 
don't  know  how  he  feels  on  that  subject.  It  is  a 
thing  of  life  and  death — I  mean  the  soul's  life  or 
death — to  him." 

A  painful  discussion,  in  which  both  felt  hurt  and 
angry  and  both  spoke  in  very  affectionate  terms, 
followed.  It  lasted  until  they  reached  the  great 

19 


146  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

city  which  stretches  out  her  hands  to  every  other 
city.  Roland  had  secured  rooms  in  a  very  dull, 
respectable  house  in  Queen's  Square,  Bloomsbury. 
He  had  often  stayed  there  when  his  finances  did  not 
admit  of  West  End  luxuries,  and  the  place  was  suit 
able  for  many  other  reasons. 

Then  followed  two  perfectly  happy  weeks  for 
Denas.  She  had  written  a  few  lines  to  her  parents 
while  waiting  for  a  train  at  Exeter,  and  she  then 
resolved  not  to  permit  herself  to  grieve  about  their 
grief,  because  it  could  do  them  no  good  and  it 
would  seriously  worry  and  annoy  Roland.  And 
Roland  was  so  loving  and  generous.  At  his  com 
mand  modistes  and  milliners  turned  his  plebeian 
bride  into  a  fashionable,  and  certainly  into  a  very 
lovely  lady.  She  had  more  pretty  costumes  than  she 
had  ever  dreamed  of;  she  had  walking-hats  and 
dress-hats,  and  expensive  furs,  and  she  grew  more 
beautiful  with  each  new  garment.  They  went  to 
theatres  and  operas;  they  went  riding  and  walking; 
they  had  cosey  little  dinners  at  handsome  restau 
rants;  and  Roland  never  once  named  money,  or  sing 
ing,  or  anything  likely  to  spoil  the  charm  of  the  life 
they  were  leading. 

During  this  happy  interval  Denas  did  not  quite 
forget  her  parents.  She  wrote  to  them  once,  and  she 
very  often  wondered  through  whom  and  in  what 
manner  they  received  the  news  of  their  loss.  It 
was  her  own  hand  which  dealt  the  blow.  Miss  Pris- 
cilla  really  thought  Denas  had  gone  back  to  her 
home,  and  she  resolved  on  the  following  Sunday 
afternoon  to  walk  down  to  the  fishing  village  and 


A    SEA    OF  SORROW.  14? 

"  make  it  up  "  with  her.  About  Wednesday,  how 
ever,  there  began  to  be  floating  rumours  of  the 
truth.  Several  people  called  on  Priscilla  and  asked 
after  the  whereabouts  of  Denas;  and  the  landlord 
of  the  Black  Lion  was  talking  freely  of  the  large 
bill  Roland  had  left  unsettled  there.  Eut  none  of 
these  rumours  reached  the  ears  of  the  fisher-folk, 
nor  were  they  likely  to  do  so  until  the  St.  Penfer 
Weekly  News  appeared.  The  first  three  days  of  the 
week  had  been  so  foggy  that  no  boat  had  cared  to 
risk  a  sail  over  the  bar;  but  on  Thursday  morning 
all  was  clear,  and  the  men  were  eager  to  get  out  to 
sea.  John  Penelles  was  hastening  toward  his  boat, 
when  he  heard  a  voice  calling  him.  It  was  the 
postman,  and  he  turned  and  went  to  meet  him. 

"  Here  be  a  letter  for  you,  John  Penelles.  Exeter 
postmark.  I  came  a  bit  out  of  my  way  with  it.  I 
thought  you  would  be  looking  for  news." 

The  man  was  thinking  of  Denas  and  the  reports 
about  her  flight;  but  John's  unconcern  puzzled  him, 
and  he  did  not  care  to  say  anything  more  definite 
to  the  big  fisherman.  And,  as  it  happened,  a  letter 
was  expected  from  Plymouth,  on  chapel  business; 
for  the  very  preacher  who  had  married  Roland  and 
Denas  had  been  asked  to  come  to  St.  Penfer  and 
preach  the  yearly  missionary  sermon.  John  had  no 
doubt  this  letter  from  Exeter  referred  to  the  matter. 
He  said  so  to  the  postman,  and  with  the  unconscious 
messenger  of  sorrow  in  his  hand  went  back  to  his 
cottage. 

For  letters  were  unusual  events  with  John.  If  this 
referred  to  the  missionary  service,  he  would  have 


148  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

to  read  it  in  public  next  Sunday,  and  he  was  much 
pleased  and  astonished  that  it  should  have  been 
sent  to  him.  He  felt  a  certain  importance  in  the 
event,  and  was  anxious  to  share  his  little  triumph 
with  his  "old  dear."  Joan  did  not  quite  appreciate 
his  consideration.  She  had  her  hands  in  the  dough, 
and  her  thoughts  were  upon  the  pipeclaying  which 
she  was  going  to  give  to  the  flagged  floor  of  her  cot 
tage.  She  had  hoped  men-folks  with  their  big 
boots  would  keep  away  until  her  work  was  dry  and 
snow-white. 

"  Here  be  a  letter  from  Exeter,  Joan,  to  me. 
'Twill  be  about  the  missionary  service.  I  thought 
you  would  like  to  know,  my  dear." 

"  Hum-m-m  !  "  answered  Joan.  "  I  could  have 
done  without  the  news,  John,  till  the  bread  was 
baked  and  the  floor  was  whitened."  She  had  her 
back  to  John,  but,  as  he  did  not  speak  again,  she 
turned  her  face  over  her  shoulder  and  looked  at 
him.  The  next  moment  she  was  at  his  side. 

"What  is  it,  John?     John  Penelles,  speak  to  me." 

John  stood  on  the  hearth  with  his  left  arm  out 
stretched  and  holding  an  open  letter.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  on  it.  His  face  had  the  rigid,  stubborn  look 
of  a  man  who  on  the  very  point  of  unconsciousness 
arrests  his  soul  by  a  peremptory  act  of  will.  He 
stood  erect,  stiff,  speechless,  with  the  miserable  slip 
of  white  paper  at  the  end  of  his  outstretched  arm. 

Joan  gently  forced  him  back  into  his  chair;  she 
untied  his  many  neckcloths;  she  bared  his  broad, 
hairy  chest;  she  brought  him  water  to  drink ;  and 
at  length  her  tears  and  entreaties  melted  the  stone- 


A    SEA    OF  SORROW.  149 

like  rigour;  his  head  fell  forward,  his  eyes  closed, 
his  hand  unclasped,  and  the  letter  fell  to  the  floor. 
It  did  not  interest  Joan;  nothing  on  earth  was  of 
interest  to  her  while  her  husband  was  in  that  horror 
of  stubborn  suffering. 

"John,"  she  whispered,  with  her  face  against  his 
face — "John!  My  John!  My  good  heart,  be  your 
self  and  tell  Joan  what  is  the  matter.  Is  it  sick 
ness  of  your  body,  John  ?  Is  it  trouble  of  your 
mind,  John  ?  Be  a  man,  and  speak  to  God  and  to 
me.  God  is  our  refuge  and  our  strength — think  o' 
that.  A  very  present  help  in  trouble — present, 
not  a  long  way  off,  John,  not  in  heaven;  but  here 
in  your  heart  and  on  your  hearth.  Oh,  John!  John! 
do  speak  to  me." 

"To  be  sure,  Joan!  The  letter,  dear;  read  it — 
read  it  aloud — I  maybe  mistaken — it  isn't  possible, 
I'm  sure.  God  help  us  both!" 

Joan  lifted  the  letter  and  read  aloud  the  words 
written  so  hastily  in  a  few  moments  of  time,  but 
which  brought  to  two  loving  hearts  years  of  anxious 
sorrow : 

"  'DEAR  FATHER  AND  MOTHER: — I  have  just 
been  married  to  Roland  Tresham,  and  we  are  on  our 
way  to  London.  I  love  Roland  so  much,  I  hope 
you  will  forgive  me.  I  will  write  more  from  Lon 
don.  Your  loving  child, 

"'DEN AS  TRESHAM.'" 

"Oh,  Joan,  my  dear!  My  heart  be  broken!  My 
heart  be  broken!  My  heart  be  broken!" 


150  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

"Now,  John,  don't  you  be  saying  such  wisht  dis 
mal,  ugly  words.  A  heart  like  yours  is  hard  to 
break.  Not  even  a  bad  daughter  can  do  it.  Oh, 
my  dear,  don't  you  talk  like  that  there!  Don't, 
John." 

"  'Tis  the  Lord's  will,  Joan — I  do  know  that." 
"  It  be  nothing  of  the  kind,  John.  It  be  the 
devil's  will  when  a  child  do  wrong  such  love  as 
yours  and  mine.  And  there,  now!  Will  you  break 
your  brave  old  heart,  that  has  faced  death  a  hundred 
times,  for  the  devil?  No,  'tis  not  like  to  be,  I'm 
sure.  Look  at  the  worst  of  it.  Denas  does  say  she 
be  married.  She  does  write  her  name  with  his 
name.  What  then?  Many  a  poor  father  and  mother 
have  drunk  the  cup  we  be  drinking — nothing  strange 
have  come  to  us." 

"  I  do  not  believe  she  be  the  man's  wife." 
"Aw,  my  dear,  I  do  believe  it.  And  Denas  be 
my  daughter,  and  I  will  not  let  you  or  any  other 
man  say  but  that  she  be  all  of  an  honest  woman. 
'Tis  slander  against  your  awn  flesh  and  blood  to  say 
different,  John."  And  Joan  spoke  so  warmly  that 
her  temper  had  a  good  effect  upon  her  husband.  It 
was  like  a  fresh  sea-breeze.  He  roused  himself  and 
sat  upright,  and  began  to  listen  to  his  wife's  words. 
"  Denas  be  gone  away — gone  away  for  ever  from 
us — never  more  our  little  maid — never  more!  All 
this  be  true.  But,  John,  her  heart  was  gone  a  long 
time  ago.  Our  poor  ways  were  her  scorn;  she  have 
gone  to  her  awn,  my  dear,  and  we  could  not  keep 
her.  'Tis  like  the  young  gull  you  brought  home 
one  day,  and,  when  it  was  grown,  no  love  kept  it 


A    SEA    OF  SORROW.  151 

from  the  sea.  You  gave  it  of  your  best,  and  it  left 
you;  it  lay  in  your  breast,  John,  and  it  left  you. 
My  dear!  my  dear!  she  be  the  man's  wife.  Say 
that  and  feel  that  and  stick  to  that.  He  be  no 
son  to  us,  that  be  sure;  but  Denas  is  our  daughter. 
And  maybe,  John,  things  are  going  to  turn  out 
better  than  you  think  for.  Denas  be  no  fool." 

"Oh,  Joan,  how  could  she?" 

At  this  point  Joan  broke  down  and  began  to  sob 
passionately,  and  John  had  to  turn  comforter. 
And  thus  the  painful  hours  went  by,  and  the  bread 
was  not  baked,  and  the  boats  went  to  sea  without 
John;  and  the  two  sorrowful  hearts  sat  together  on 
their  lonely  hearth  and  talked  of  the  child  who 
had  run  away  from  their  love.  They  were  uncertain 
what  to  say  to  their  neighbours,  uncertain  what  their 
neighbours  would  say  to  them.  John  thought  he 
ought  to  go  to  Exeter  and  see  all  the  clergymen 
there,  and  so  find  out  if  Denas  had  been  lawfully 
married.  Joan  thought  it  "  a  wisht  poor  business 
to  go  looking  for  bad  news.  Sit  at  your  fireside, 
old  man,  or  go  far  out  to  sea  if  you  like  it  better, 
and  if  bad  news  be  for  you  it  will  find  you  out,  do 
be  sure  of  that." 

The  next  day  it  did  find  them  out.  The  St.  Pen- 
fer  News,  published  on  Thursday,  which  was  mar 
ket-day,  contained  the  following  item:  "On  Mon 
day  night  the  daughter  of  John  Penelles,  fisher,  ran 
off  with  Mr.  Roland  Tresham.  The  guilty  pair  went 
direct  to  London.  Great  sympathy  is  felt  for  the 
girl's  father,  who  is  a  thoroughly  upright  man  and 
a  Wesleyan  local  preacher  of  the  St.  Penfer  circuit." 


152  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

One  of  the  brethren  thought  it  his  duty  to  show 
this  paragraph  to  John.  And  the  "old  man"  in 
John  gained  the  mastery,  and  with  a  great  oath  he 
swore  the  words  were  a  lie.  Then,  being  sneeringly 
contradicted,  he  felled  "the  man  of  duty"  prone 
upon  the  shingle.  Then  he  went  home  and  thor 
oughly  terrified  Joan.  The  repressed  animal  passion 
of  a  life-time  raged  in  him  like  a  wild  beast.  He 
used  words  which  horrified  his  wife,  he  kicked 
chairs  and  tables  out  of  his  way  like  a  man  drunk 
with  strong  liquor.  He  said  he  would  go  to  St. 
Merryn's  and  get  his  money,  and  follow  Roland 
and  Denas  to  the  end  of  the  world ;  and  if  they  were 
not  married,  they  should  marry  or  die — both  of 
them.  He  walked  his  cottage  floor  the  night 
through,  and  all  the  powers  of  darkness  tortured 
and  tempted  him. 

For  the  first  time  in  all  their  wedded  life  Joan 
dared  not  approach  her  husband.  He  was  like  a 
giant  in  the  power  of  his  enemies,  and  his  struggles 
were  terrible.  But  she  knew  well  that  he  must  fight 
and  conquer  alone.  Hour  after  hour  his  ceaseless 
tramp,  tramp,  tramp  went  on;  and  she  could  hear 
him  breathing  inwardly  like  one  who  has  business 
of  life  and  death  in  hand. 

Toward  dawn  she  lost  hold  of  herself  and  fell 
asleep.  When  she  awoke  it  was  broad  daylight, 
and  all  was  still  in  the  miserable  house.  Softly  she 
opened  the  door  and  looked  into  the  living-room. 
John  was  on  his  knees;  she  heard  his  voice — a  far- 
off,  awful  voice — the  voice  of  the  soul  and  not  of 
the  body.  So  she  went  back,  and  with  bowed  head 


A    SEA    OF  SORROW.  153 

sat  down  on  the  edge  of  her  bed  and  waiied.  Very 
cold  was  the  winter  morning,  but  she  feared  to 
make  a  movement.  She  knew  it  was  long  past  the 
breakfast  hour;  she  heard  footsteps  passing,  the 
shouts  of  the  fishers,  the  cries  of  the  sea-birds;  she 
believed  it  to  be  at  least  ten  o'clock. 

But  she  sat  breathlessly  still.  John  was  wrestling 
as  Jacob  wrestled;  a  movement,  a  whisper  might 
delay  the  victory  or  the  blessing.  She  almost  held 
her  breath  as  the  muttered  pleading  grew  more  and 
more  rapid,  more  and  more  urgent.  Then  there 
was  a  dead  silence,  a  pause,  a  long  deep  sigh,  a 
slow  movement — and  John  opened  the  door  and  said 
softly,  "Joan."  There  was  the  light  of  victory  on 
his  face;  the  cold  strong  light  of  a  lifted  sword. 
Then  he  sat  down  by  her  side;  but  what  he  told  her 
and  how  she  comforted  him  belong  to  those  sacred, 
secret  things  which  it  is  a  sacrilege  against  love  to 
speak  of. 

They  went  together  to  the  cold  hearth,  and  kin 
dled  the  fire,  and  made  the  meal  both  urgently 
needed,  and,  as  they  ate  it,  John  spoke  of  the  duty 
before  him.  He  had  sworn  at  Jacob  Trenager  and 
knocked  him  down;  he  had  let  loose  all  the  devils 
within  him;  he  had  failed  in  the  hour  of  his  trial, 
and  he  must  resign  his  offices  of  class  leader  and 
local  preacher. 

It  was  a  bitter  personal  humiliation.  How  his 
enemies  would  rejoice!  Where  he  had  been  first,  he 
must  be  last.  After  he  had  eaten,  he  took  the  plan 
out  of  the  Bible  and  looked  at  it.  As  he  already 
knew,  he  was  appointed  to  preach  at  St.  Clair  the 


154  A   SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

following  evening.  He  had  prepared  his  sermon 
on  those  three  foggy  days  that  began  the  week. 
He  then  thought  he  had  never  been  so  ready  for  a 
preacning,  and  he  had  the  desire  of  a  natural  orator 
for  his  occasion.  But  how  could  he  preach  to  others 
when  he  had  failed  himself?  The  flight  of  his 
daughter  was  in  every  mouth,  and  in  some  measure 
he  would  be  held  responsible  for  her  sin.  Was  not 
Eli  punished  for  his  son's  transgressions  ?  The  duty 
before  him  was  a  terrible  one.  It  made  his  brown 
face  blanch  and  his  strong,  stern  mouth  guiver  with 
mental  anguish. 

But  he  laid  the  plan  on  the  table  and  crossed  out 
carefully  all  the  figures  which  represented  John 
Penelles.  Then  he  wrote  a  few  lines  to  the  super 
intendent  and  enclosed  his  self-degradation.  Joan 
wondered  what  he  would  do  about  the  St.  Clair 
appointment,  for  he  had  asked  no  one  to  take  his 
place,  and  early  in  the  afternoon  he  told  her  to  get 
the  lantern  ready,  as  he  was  going  there.  She  divined 
what  he  purposed  to  do,  and  she  refused  to  go  with 
him.  He  did  not  oppose  her  decision;  perhaps  he 
was  glad  she  felt  able  to  spare  herself  arid  him 
the  extra  humiliation. 

Never  had  the  little  chapel  been  so  crowded.  All 
his  mates  from  the  neighbouring  villages  were  pres 
ent;  for  everyone  had  some  share  of  that  itching 
curiosity  that  likes  to  see  how  a  soul  suffers.  A. 
few  of  the  leaders  spoke  to  him;  a  great  many 
appeared  to  be  lost  in  those  divine  meditations 
suitable  to  the  house  of  worship.  John's  first  action 
awakened  everyone  present  to  a  sense  of  something 


A    SEA    OF  SORROtti  *55 

unusual.  He  refused  to  ascend  the  pulpit.  He 
passed  within  the  rails  that  enclosed  the  narrow 
sacred  spot  below  the  pulpit,  drew  the  snail  table 
forward,  and,  without  the  preface  of  hymn  or  prayer, 
plunged  at  once  into  his  own  confession  of  unworthi- 
ness  to  minister  to  them.  He  read  aloud  the  letter 
which  he  had  received  from  his  daughter,  and  averred 
his  belief  in  its  truthfulness.  He  told,  with  the  mi 
nutest  veracity,  every  word  of  his  quarrel  with  Jacob 
Trenager.  He  confessed  his  shameful  and  violent 
temper  in  his  own  home;  his  hatred  and  his  desire 
and  purposes  of  revenge;  and  he  askeo  the  pardon 
of  Trenager  and  of  every  member  cf  the  church 
which  had  been  scandalized  by  the  action  of  his 
daughter  and  by  his  own  sinfulness. 

His  voice,  sad  and  visibly  restrained  by  a  power 
ful  will,  throbbed  with  the  burning  emotions  which 
made  the  man  quiver  from  head  to  feet.  It  was 
impossible  not  to  feel  something  of  the  anguish  that 
looked  out  of  his  large  patient  eyes  and  trembled 
on  his  lips.  Women  began  to  sob  hysterically,  men 
bent  their  heads  low  or  covered  their  faces  with 
their  hands;  an  irresistible  wave  of  sorrow  and 
sympathy  was  carrying  every  soul  with  it 

But,  even  while  John  was  speaking,  a  man  rose 
and  walked  up  the  aisle  to  the  table  at  which  John 
stood.  He  turned  his  face  to  the  congregation,  and, 
lifting  up  his  big  hand,  cried  out: 

"Be  quiet,  John  Penelles.  I  be  to  blame  in  this 
matter.  I  be  the  villain!  There  isn't  a  Cornish- 
man  living  that  be  such  a  Judas  as  I  be.  'Twas 
under  my  old  boat  Denas  Penelles  found  the  love- 


1 56  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

letters  that  couldn't  have  come  to  her  own  home. 
Why  did  I  lend  my  boat  and  myself  for  such  a 
cruel  bad  end?  Was  it  because  I  liked  the  young 
man  ?  No,  I  hated  him.  What  for,  then  ?"  He  put 
his  hand  in  his  pocket,  took  out  a  piece  of  gold, 
and,  ill  the  sight  of  all,  dashed  it  down  on  the  table. 

"That's  what  I  did  it  for.  One  pound!  A  wisht 
beggarly  bit  of  money!  Judas  asked  thirty  pieces. 
I  sold  Pau1.  Pyn  for  one  piece,  and  it  was  too  much — 
too  much  for  such  a  ghastly,  mean  old  rascal.  I 
be  cruel  sorry — but  there  then !  where  be  the  good 
of 'sorry  '  now?  That  bit  of  gold  have  burnt  my 
soul  blacker  than  a  coal !  dreadful !  aw,  dreadful ! 
I  wouldn't  iouch  it  again  to  save  my  mean  old 
life.  And  if  there  be  a  man  or  a  woman  in  Corn- 
wall  that  will  touch  it,  they  be  as  uncommon  bad  as 
I  be!  that  is  sure." 

"  Paul,  I  forgive  you,  and  there  is  my  hand  upon 
it.  A  man  can  only  be  'sorry.'  'Sorry'  be  all  that 
God  asks,"  said  John  Penelles  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  be  no  man,  John.  I  be  just  a  cruel  bad  fellow. 
I  never  had  a  child  to  love  me  or  one  to  love.  No 
woman  would  be  my  wife.  I  be  kind  of  forsaken — 
no  kith  or  kin  to  care  about  me,"  and,  with  his 
brown,  rugged  face  cast  down,  he  began  to  walk 
toward  the  door.  Then  Ann  Bude  rose  in  the  sight 
of  all.  She  went  to  his  side;  she  took  his  hand 
and  passed  out  of  the  chapel  with  him.  And  every 
one  looked  at  the  other,  for  Paul  had  loved  Ann 
for  twenty  years  and  twenty  times  at  least  Ann 
had  refused  to  be  his  wife.  But  now,  in  this  hour 
of  his  shame  ^ncj  sorrow,  she  had  gone  to  his  side, 


A    SEA    OF  SORROW.  15? 

and  a  sigh  and  a  smile  passed  from  heart  to  heart 
and  from  face  to  face. 

John  stood  still,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  piece 
of  gold.  It  lay  on  the  table  like  a  guilty  thing. 
All  Pyn's  sin  seemed  to  have  passed  into  it.  Men 
and  women  stood  up  to  look  at  it  where  it  lay — 
the  wretched  tool  of  a  bad  man.  It  was  a  relief 
when  Jacob  Trenager  gave  out  a  hymn,  a  greater 
relief  that  John  Penelles  went  out  while  they  were 
singing  it.  Brothers  and  sisters  all  wished  to  talk 
about  John  and  John's  trouble,  but  to  talk  to  him 
in  his  grief  and  humiliation  was  a  different  thing. 
Only  the  old  chapel-keeper  watched  him  going 
along  the  rocky  coast  at  a  dangerous  speed,  his  lan 
tern  swinging  wildly  to  his  big  strides. 

But  a  five-minutes'  walk  brought  John  to  a  place 
where  he  was  alone  with  God  and  the  sea.  Oh, 
then,  how  he  cried  out  for  pity!  for  comfort!  for 
help!  for  forgiveness!  His  voice  was  not  the 
inaudible  pleading  of  a  man  praying  in  his  chamber; 
it  was  like  the  despairing  call  of  a  strong  swimmer 
in  the  death-billows.  It  went  out  over  the  ocean; 
it  went  out  beyond  time  and  space;  it  touched  the 
heart  of  the  Divinity  who  pitieth  the  sufferers, 
"even  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children." 

There  was  a  glow  of  firelight  through  his  cottage 
window,  but  no  candle.  Joan  was  bending  sorrow 
fully  over  the  red  coals.  John  was  glad  of  the  dim 
light,  glad  of  the  quiet,  glad  of  the  solitude,  for 
Joan  was  only  his  other  self — his  sweeter  and  more 
hopeful  self.  He  told  her  all  that  had  passed.  She 
stood  up  beside  him,  she  held  his  head  against  her 


I58  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

breast  and  let  him  sob  away  there  the  weight  of 
grief  and  shame  that  almost  choked  him.  Then 
she  spoke  bravely  to  the  broken-down,  weary  man : 

"John,  my  old  dear,  don't  you  sit  on  the  ash-heap 
like  Job,  and  bemoan  yourself  and  your  birthday, 
and  go  on  as  if  the  devil  had  more  to  do  with  you 
than  with  other  Christians.  Speak  up  to  your 
Heavenly  Father,  and  ask  Him  '  why,'  and  answer 
Him  like  a  man;  do  now!  And  go  to  Exeter  in  the 
morning,  and  make  yourself  sure  that  Denas  be  a 
honest  woman.  I,  her  mother,  be  sure  of  it;  but 
there  then!  men  do  be  so  bad  themselves,  they  can't 
trust  their  own  hearts,  nor  their  own  ears  and  eyes. 
'I  believe  '  will  make  a  woman  happy;  but  a  man, 
God  knows,  they  must  go  to  the  law  and  the  tes 
timony,  or  they  are  not  satisfied.  It's  dreadful! 
dreadful ! " 

They  talked  the  night  away,  and  early  in  the 
morning  John  went  to  Exeter.  With  the  proofs  of 
his  daughter's  marriage  in  his  hand,  he  felt  as  if  he 
could  face  his  enemies.  Joan  was  equal  to  them 
without  it.  She  knew  they  would  find  her  out,  and 
they  found  her  singing  at  her  work.  Her  placid 
face  and  cheery  words  of  welcome  nonplussed  the 
most  spiteful ;  the  majority  who  came  to  triumph 
over  her  went  away  without  being  able  to  say  one 
of  the  many  evil  thoughts  in  their  hearts;  and  not 
a  few  found  themselves  hoping  and  wishing  good 
things  for  the  bride. 

But  it  was  a  great  effort,  and  many  times  that 
day  Joan  went  into  the  inner  room,  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  pillow,  and  had  her  cry  out.  Only  she 


A    SEA    OF  SORROW.  159 

confidently  expected  John  to  bring  back  the  proofs 
of  her  child's  marriage,  and  in  that  expectation  she 
bore  without  weakening  the  slant  eye,  and  the 
shrugged  shoulder,  and  the  denying  looks  of  her 
neighbours.  And  of  course  John  found  no  minister 
in  Exeter  who  had  married  Denas  Penelles  and 
Roland  Tresham;  and  it  never  once  struck  him  that 
Denas  had  been  married  in  Plymouth  and  found  no 
time  to  write  until  she  reached  Exeter.  Neither 
did  Joan  think  of  such  a  possibility;  yet  when  her 
husband  came  in  without  a  word  and  sat  down 
with  a  black,  stubborn  face,  she  knew  that  he  had 
been  disappointed. 

That  night  John  held  his  peace,  even  from  good; 
and  Joan  felt  that  for  once  she  must  do  the  same. 
So  they  sat  together  without  candle,  without  speech, 
bowed  to  the  earth  with  shame,  feeling  with  bitter 
anguish  that  their  old  age  had  been  beggared  of 
love,  and  honour,  and  hope,  and  happiness;  and, 
alas!  so  beggared  by  the  child  who  had  been  the 
joy  and  the  pride  of  their  lives. 

At  the  same  hour  Denas  sat  with  Roland  in  one  of 
the  fine  restaurants  to  be  found  in  High  Holborn. 
They  had  eaten  of  the  richest  viands,  the  sparkle 
of  the  champagne  cup  was  in  both  their  eyes,  and 
they  were  going  anon  to  the  opera.  Denas  had  a 
silk  robe  on  and  a  little  pink  opera  cloak.  Her 
long  pale  gloves  and  her  bouquet  of  white  roses 
were  by  her  side.  Roland  was  in  full  evening  dress. 
Their  eyes  flashed ;  their  cheeks  flamed  with  pleasant 
anticipations.  They  rose  from  their  dinner  with 
smiles  and  whispered  love-words;  and  Roland 


I  Go  A    SfNGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

ordered  with  the  air  of  a  lord,  "A  carriage  for  the 
opera." 

From  John  and  Joan  these  events  were  mercifully 
hidden.  It  is  only  God  who  can  bear  the  awful 
light  of  omniscience  and  of  omnipresence.  The 
things  we  cannot  see!  The  things  we  never  know! 
Let  us  be  unspeakably  grateful  for  this  blessed 
ignorance!  For  many  a  heart  would  break  that 
lives  on  if  it  only  knew — if  it  only  saw — how  unnec 
essary  was  its  love  to  those  it  loves  so  fondly! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A    PIECE    OF   MONEY     AND    A    SONG. 

"  Tis  but  a  Judas  coin,  though  it  be  gold; 

The  price  of  love  forsworn,  'tis  full  of  fears 
And  griefs  for  those  who  dare  to  hold; 

And  leaves  a  stain,  only  washed  clean  with  tears." 

"  Behold  and  listen  while  the  fair 
Breaks  in  sweet  sounds  the  willing  air; 
She  raised  her  voice  so  high,  and  sang  so  clear, 
At  every  close  she  made  the  attending  throng 
Replied,  and  bore  the  burthen  of  the  song; 
So  just,  so  small,  yet  in  so  sweet  a  note, 
It  seemed  the  music  melted  in  the  throat." 

— DRYDEN. 

THE  piece  of  money  left  by  Pyn  might  have  been 
a  curse;  no  one  would  touch    it.     While  the 
women  stood  in  groups  talking  of  poor  John  Penelles 
and  Denas,  the  men  held  an  informal  meeting  around 
the  table  on  which  it  lay. 

"  This  be  the  communion  table,"  said  Jacob  Tren- 
ager;  "some  one  ought  to  take  the  money  off  it. 
And  I  think  it  be  best  to  carry  the  gold  to  the  super 
intendent;  he  will  tell  us  what  to  do  with  it;"  and, 
after  some  objections,  Jacob  took  charge  of  the  sin 
ful  coin,  and  the  next  morning  he  went  up  the  cliff 
to  St.  Penfer  with  it. 

The  preacher  heard    the  story  with   an  intense 
ii  161 


1 63  A    SJNGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

interest.  "Jacob, "he  answered,  "I  suppose  there 
be  none  so  poor  in  your  village  as  to  feel  it  might 
do  them  good?" 

"Man,  nor  woman,  nor  child,  would  buy  a  loaf 
with  it,  sir;  none  of  us  men  would  let  them.  If 
Denas  Penelles  have  gone  out  of  the  way,  sir,  she 
be  a  fisher's  daughter,  and  the  man  and  the  money 
that  beguiled  her  be  hateful  to  all  of  us." 

"Your  chapel — is  it  not  very  poor?" 

"Not  poor  enough  to  take  the  devil's  coin,  sir." 

"  Well,  Jacob,  I  cannot  say  that  I  feel  any  more 
disposed  to  use  it  than  you  do.  We  know  it  was 
the  wage  of  sin,  and  neither  the  service  of  God  nor 
the  poor  will  be  the  better  for  it.  I  think  we  will 
give  it  back  to  the  young  man.  It  may  help  to 
show  him  how  his  fellows  regard  the  thing  he  did." 

"  That  be  the  best  way  of  all,  sir.  But  he  be  in 
London,  and  hard  to  find  no  doubt." 

"I  will  take  it  to  his  sister.  I  do  not  hold  her 
quite  guiltless." 

So  Jacob  threw  the  sovereign  on  the  preacher's 
desk,  and  it  lay  on  the  green  baize,  a  yellow,  evil- 
looking  thing.  For  men  love  to  make  their  thoughts 
palpable  to  their  senses,  and  this  bit  of  gold  was 
visible  sin — part  of  the  price  of  a  desolated  home. 

It  was  singular  to  see  this  same  personification 
troubling  the  educated  preacher  as  well  as  the 
unlearned  fisherman.  The  Rev.  William  Farrar, 
when  left  alone  with  the  unwelcome  coin,  looked 
askance  at  it.  He  did  not  like  to  see  it  on  his  desk, 
he  had  a  repugnance  to  touch  it.  Then  he  forced 
himself  to  lift  the  sovereign,  and  by  an  elaborate 


A  PIECE  OF  MONEY  AND  A  SONG.     163 

fingering  of  the  coin  convince  his  intellect  that  he 
had  no  foolish  superstition  on  the  subject.  Anon 
he  took  out  his  purse  for  its  safe  keeping,  but  sud 
denly,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  snapped  the 
clasp  tight,  and  threw  the  bit  of  money  on  the  chim 
ney-piece.  For  a  momentary  flash  of  thought  had 
brought  vividly  before  him  the  sinful  Babylonish 
garment  which  troubled  the  camp  of  Israel.  Per 
haps  that  sinful  money  might  be  equally  malign  to 
his  own  household. 

He  had  resolved  to  take  it  to  Mrs.  Burrell  in 
the  afternoon,  for  the  morning  was  his  time  for 
study  and  writing.  But  he  found  it  impossible  to 
think  of  his  sermon.  That  sovereign  on  the  mantel 
piece  was  in  all  his  thoughts.  His  back  was  to  it, 
and  yet  he  saw  the  dull  shining  disc.  In  spite  of 
his  reason  and  his  faith,  in  spite  of  a  very  strong 
will  and  of  a  practiced  command  over  himself,  he 
felt  the  presence  of  the  rejected  coin  to  be  a  weight 
and  an  influence  he  could  not  pretend  to  ignore. 

So  he  resolved  to  leave  every  other  duty  and  go 
to  Burrell  Court,  though  it  was  a  long  walk,  and 
the  thick  misty  Cornish  rain  had  begun  to  fall. 
Indeed,  there  was  nothing  but  a  vapourish  shroud,  a 
dim,  grey  chaos,  as  far  as  his  eye  could  reach.  The 
strip  of  road  on  which  he  trod  was  apparently  the 
only  land  left  to  tread  on — all  the  rest  of  creation 
had  disappeared  in  a  spectral  mist.  But  above  the 
mist  the  lark  was  singing  joyously,  singing  for  the 
song's  sake,  and  the  melody  went  down  into  his 
heart  and  preached  him  a  better  sermon  than  he 
was  ever  likely  to  write. 


164  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

Listening  to  it,  he  reached,  before  he  was  aware, 
the  great  gates  of  the  Court.  Mrs.  Burrell  was  at 
home,  and  he  sent  a  request  for  an  interview.  Eliza 
beth  instantly  suspected  that  he  had  come  on  some 
affair  relating  to  that  wretched  business.  She  was 
in  trouble  enough  about  it,  but  she  was  also  proud 
and  reticent,  and  not  inclined  to  discuss  Roland 
with  a  stranger. 

Quite  intentionally  she  gave  to  her  manner  a  good 
deal  of  that  haughtiness  which  young  wives  think 
dignity,  but  which  is  in  reality  the  offensive  fresh 
ness  of  new-made  honour.  The  preacher  offered  her 
his  hand,  but  she  did  not  see  it,  being  fully  occupied 
in  arranging  the  long  train  of  cashmere,  silk,  and 
lace  which,  in  those  days,  made  morning  dresses  a 
misnomer. 

"  I  am  the  Wesleyan  preacher  from  St.  Penfer, 
Mrs.  Burrell." 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  sir?  though  really,  if 
yours  is  a  charitable  visit,  I  must  remind  you  that  my 
own  church  looks  to  me  for  all  I  can  possibly  afford. " 

"  I  do  not  come,  Mrs.  Burrell,  to  ask  for  money. 
I  bring  you  this  sovereign,  which  belongs  to  Mr. 
Roland  Tresham." 

The  gold  fell  from  his  fingers,  spun  round  a  few 
times,  and,  dropping  upon  the  polished  mahogany 
table,  made  a  distinct  clink. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  Mr.  Farrar. " 

The  preacher  hastened  to  make  the  circumstance 
more  intelligible.  He  related  the  scene  at  the  St. 
Clair  chapel  with  a  dramatic  force  that  sprang  from 
intense  feeling,  and  Elizabeth  listened  to  his  solemn 


A  PIECE  OF  MONEY  AND  A  SONG.       165 

words  with  angry  uneasiness.  Yet  she  made  an 
effort  to  treat  the  affair  with  unconcern. 

"  What  have  I  to  do  with  the  sovereign,  sir?"  she 
asked.  "  I  am  not  responsible  for  Mr.  Tresham's 
acts.  I  did  my  best  to  prevent  the  disgrace  that 
has  befallen  the  fisherman's  daughter." 

"I  think  you  are  to  blame  in  a  great  measure." 

"Sir!" 

"  Yes.  I  am  sure  you  are.  You  made  a  compan 
ion  of  the  girl — I  may  say  a  friend." 

"  No,  sir,  not  a  friend.  She  was  not  my  equal  in 
any  respect." 

"  Say  a  companion  then.  You  taught  her  how  to 
dress,  how  to  converse,  how  to  carry  herself  above 
her  own  class.  You  permitted  her  to  wander  about 
the  garden  with  your  brother." 

"I  always  watched  them." 

"  You  let  her  talk  to  him — you  let  her  sing  with 
him." 

"  Never  but  when  I  was  present.  From  the  first 
I  told  her  what  Roland  was — told  her  to  mind 
nothing  at  all  he  said." 

"  If  you  had  put  a  glass  of  cold  water  before  a 
man  dying  of  thirst,  would  you  have  been  justified 
in  telling  him  not  to  drink?  You  might  even  have 
added  that  the  water  contained  poison  ;  all  the  same, 
he  would  have  drunk  it,  and  your  blame  it  would  be 
for  putting  it  within  his  reach." 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Farrar,  I  will  not  take  the  blame  of 
the  creature's  wickedness.  It  is  a  strange  thing  to 
be  told  that  educating  a  girl  and  trying  to  lift  her 
a  step  or  two  higher  is  a  sin." 


1 66  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

"  It  is  a  sin,  madam,  unless  you  persevere  in  it. 
God  does  not  permit  the  rich,  for  their  own  tem 
porary  glory  or  convenience,  to  make  experiments 
with  an  immortal  soul,  and  then  abandon  it  like  a 
soiled  glove  or  a  game  of  which  they  have  grown 
weary.  What  you  began  you  ought  in  common 
justice  to  have  carried  on  to  such  perfection  as  was 
possible.  No  circumstances  could  justify  you  in 
beguiling  a  girl  from  her  natural  protectors  and 
then  leaving  her  in  the  midst  of  danger  alone." 

"  Sir,  this  is  my  affair,  not  yours.  I  beg  leave 
to  say  that  you  know  nothing  whatever  of  the  cir 
cumstances." 

"  Indeed,  I  know  a  great  deal  about  them,  and  I 
can  reasonably  deduce  a  great  deal  more." 

"And  pray,  sir,  what  do  you  deduce?" 

"  The  right  of  Denas  Penelles  to  have  been  retained 
as  your  companion.  Having  made  a  certain  refine 
ment  of  life  necessary  to  her,  you  ought  in  common 
justice  to  have  supplied  the  want  you  created." 

"  All  this  trouble  arose  when  I  was  on  my  wed 
ding-trip. " 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  have  taken  her  with  you." 

"Sir!" 

"  I  think  so.  It  was  hard  to  be  suddenly  deprived 
of  every  social  pleasure  and  refinement  and  sent 
back  to  a  fisher's  cottage  to  cure  fish,  and  knot  nets, 
and  knit  fishing-shirts.  How  could  you  have 
borne  it?" 

"Mr.  Farrar,  such  a  comparison  is  an  insult." 

"I  mean  no  insult;  far  from  it.  Even  my  office 
would  give  me  no  right  to  insult  you.  I  only  wish 


A  PIECE  OF  MONEY  AND  A  SONG.       167 

to  awaken  your  conscience.  Even  yet  it  may  take 
up  your  abandoned  duty." 

"  Perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  I  endeavoured  last 
week  to  see  Denas.  I  wrote  to  her.  I  asked  her  to 
come  and  see  me.  I  told  her  I  wanted  to  talk  with 
her  about  Mr.  Tresham.  She  did  not  even  answer 
my  letter.  I  consider  myself  clear  of  the  ungrateful 
girl — and  as  I  am  busy  this  morning  I  will  be 
obliged  to  you,  sir,  to  excuse  my  further  attendance. 
Take  the  sovereign  with  you;  give  it  to  the  poor." 

"God  will  feed  His  poor,  madam." 

She  made  a  little  scornful  laugh  and  asked:  "Do 
you  really  inquire  into  the  character  of  all  the 
money  your  church  receives  ?" 

"  No  further,  madam,  than  you  inquire  into  the 
character  of  the  visitors  you  receive.  Plenty  of 
thieves  and  seducers  are  in  every  society,  but  it  is 
not  until  a  man  is  publicly  known  to  be  a  thief  or 
a  seducer  that  we  are  justified  in  refusing  him  a 
courteous  reception.  A  great  deal  of  money  is  the 
wages  of  sin,  and  it  passes  through  our  hands  and 
we  are  not  stained  by  its  contact;  but  if  I  give  you 
a  piece  of  gold  and  say,  '  It  is  the  price  of  a  slain 
soul,  or  a  slain  body,  or  a  slain  reputation,'  would 
you  like  to  put  it  in  your  purse,  or  buy  bread  for 
your  children  with  it,  or  take  it  to  church  and  offer 
it  to  God?  I  wish  you  good-morning,  Mrs.  Burrell." 

And  Elizabeth  bowed  and  stood  watching  him 
until  the  door  was  closed  and  she  was  alone  with 
the  coin.  It  offended  her.  It  had  been  the  cause 
of  a  most  humiliating  visit.  She  looked  at  it  with 
scorn  and  loathing.  A  servant  entered  with  a  card; 


1 68  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

she  took  it  eagerly,  and  pointing  to  the  money 
said,  "Carry  it  to  Mr.  Tresham's  room  and  lay  it 
upon  the  dressing-table."  She  was  grateful  to  get 
it  out  of  her  sight,  and  very  glad  indeed  to  see  the 
visitor  who  had  given  her  such  a  prompt  opportunity 
for  ridding  her  eyes  of  its  gleaming  presence. 

Thus  it  is  that  not  only  present  but  absent  per 
sonalities  rule  us.  In  St.  Penfer,  Paul  Pyn  and 
Ann  Bude,  John  and  Joan  Penelles,  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Farrar  and  Mrs.  Burrell,  were  all  that  morning  gov 
erned  in  some  degree  by  Roland's  evilly  spent  sov 
ereign;  and  he  far  off  in  London  was  in  the  hey-day 
of  his  honeymoon  with  Denas.  They  were  so  gay, 
so  thoughtless  and  happy  that  people  turned  to  look 
at  them  as  they  wandered  through  the  bazars  or- 
stood  laughing  before  the  splendid  windows  in 
Regent  Street.  Many  an  old  man  and  woman  smiled 
sympathetically  at  them;  for  all  the  world  loves  a 
lover,  and  none  could  tell  that  these  lovers  had  for 
feited  their  right  to  sympathy  by  stealing  their 
pleasure  from  those  who  ought  to  have  shared  it 
with  them. 

But  as  yet  the  world  was  only  an  accident  of  their 
love,  and  there  was  a  whole  week  before  them  of 
unbroken  and  unsatiated  delight — a  whole  week  in 
which  neither  of  them  thought  of  the  past  or  the 
future ;  in  which  every  hour  brought  a  fresh  pleasure, 
something  new  to  wear,  or  to  see,  or  to  hear.  If  it 
could  only  have  lasted!  Alas!  the  ability  to  enjoy 
went  first.  Amusements  of  every  kind  grew  a  little — 
a  very  little — tiresome.  The  first  glory  was  dimmed ; 
the  charm  of  freshness  was  duller;  the  unreasoning 


A  PIECE  OF  MONEY  AND  A  SONG.       169 

delight  of  ignorance  a  little  less  enthusiastic  every 
day;  and  about  the  close  of  the  third  week  Roland 
said  one  morning,  "You  look  weary,  Denasia,  my 
darling." 

"I  am  tired,  Roland — tired  of  going a-pleasuring. 
I  never  thought  anything  like  that  could  possibly 
happen.  Ought  I  not  to  be  taking  lessons,  learn 
ing  something,  doing  something  about  my  voice?" 

"  It  is  high  time,  love.  Money  melts  in  London 
like  ice  in  summer.  Suppose  we  go  and  see  Signor 
Maria  this  morning." 

"  I  would  like  to  go  very  much." 

"  Then  make  yourself  very  fine  and  very  pretty, 
and  let  me  hear  if  your  voice  is  in  good  order 
to-day."  He  went  to  the  piano  and  struck  a  few 
chords,  and  throughout  the  still,  decorous  house, 
people  in  every  room  heard  the  sweet  voice  chanting: 

"  I  will  go  back  to  the  great  sweet  mother, 
Mother  and  lover  of  men — the  sea  " — 

heard  it  again  in  the  weird,  startling  incantation: 
"  Weave  me  the  nets  for  the  gray,  gray  fish  " — 

and  up  and  down  stairs  doors  were  softly  opened, 
and  through  every  heart  there  went  a  breath  of  the 
salt  sea  and  a  longing  for  the  wide  stretches  of 
rippled  sands  and  tossing  blue  waters. 

Roland  perceived  the  effect  of  the  music  and  was 
satisfied.  He  had  no  fear  of  their  future.  What  if 
the  gold  was  low  in  his  purse?  That  charmful  voice 
was  an  unfailing  bank  from  which  to  draw  more. 
He  was  so  proud  of  his  darling,  so  full  of  praises 


170  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

and  admiration,  that  Denas  really  put  on  an  access 
of  genius  as  she  robed  herself  to  his  flattering 
words.  Pleasure,  and  hope,  and  a  pretty  pride  in 
her  husband's  eulogies  lent  her  new  physical  graces. 
She  was  conscious  that  there  were  eyes  at  every 
window  watching  Roland  and  herself  leave  the  house, 
and  she  felt  certain  that  their  owners  were  saying: 
"  What  a  handsome  couple !  How  fond  they  are  of 
each  other!  What  a  wonderful  voice  she  has!" 

It  is  easy  to  be  gay,  and  even  beautiful,  to  such 
thoughts;  and  Roland  and  Denas  reached  Signer 
Maria's  in  a  glow  of  good-humour  and  good  hope. 
The  Signor  was  at  home  and  ready  to  receive  them. 
He  was  a  small,  thin,  dark  man  with  long,  curling 
black  hair  and  bright  black  eyes.  He  bowed  to 
Roland  and  looked  with  marked  interest  into  the 
fair,  sparkling  face  of  Denas.  He  was  much  pleased 
with  her  appearance  and  quite  interested  in  her 
ambitions.  Then  he  opened  the  piano  and  said, 
"Will  monsieur  play,  or  madame?" 

Roland  played  and  Denas  sang  her  very  best. 
The  Signor  listened  attentively,  and  Roland  was 
sure  of  an  enthusiastic  verdict;  on  the  contrary,  it 
was  one  of  depressing  qualifications.  The  Signor 
acknowledged  the  quality  of  the  voice,  its  charmful, 
haunting  tones — but  for  the  opera!  oh,  much  more 
— very,  very  much  more  was  needed.  Madame  must 
go  to  Italy  for  three  years  and  study.  She  must 
learn  the  Italian  language;  the  French;  the  Ger 
man.  Ah!  then  there  was  the  acting  also!  Had 
madame  histrionic  power?  That  was  indispensable 
for  the  grand  opera.  But  in  three  years — perhaps 


A  PIECE  OF  MONEY  AND  A  SONG.       171 

four — with  fine  teachers  her  voice  might  be  very 
rich,  very  charming.  Now  it  was  harsh,  crude, 
unformed.  Yes,  it  wanted  the  soft,  mellowing  airs 
of  Italy.  Where  had  madame  been  living — what 
was  called  "brought  up?" 

Denas  answered  she  had  always  lived  by  the  sea, 
and  the  Signer  nodded  intelligently  and  said:  "Yes! 
yes!  that  was  what  he  heard  in  her  voice;  the  fresh 
wild  winds — yes,  wild  and  salt!  It  is  airs  from  the 
rose  gardens,  velvety  languors  off  the  vineyards, 
heat  and  passions  of  the  sunshine  madame  wants. 
Indeed,  monsieur  may  take  madame  to  Italy  for  two, 
three,  perhaps  four  years,  and  then  expect  her  to 
sing.  Yes,  then,  even  in  grand  opera." 

This  was  undoubtedly  the  Signer's  honest  opinion, 
but  Roland  and  Denas  were  greatly  depressed  by 
it;  Denas  especially  so,  for  she  had  an  inward  con 
viction  that  he  was  right;  she  had  heard  the  truth. 
It  was  almost  two  different  beings  that  left  Signer 
Maria's  house.  Silently  Roland  handed  Denas  into 
the  waiting  cab,  silently  he  seated  himself  beside 
her. 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  disappointed  you,  Roland." 

"Yes,  a  little.  But  we  are  going  now  to  Mr. 
Harrison's.  There  is  nothing  foreign  about  him. 
He  is  English,  and  he  knows  what  English  people 
like.  I  shall  wait  for  his  verdict, Denas." 

"  It  was  a  long  ride  to  Mr.  Harrison's,  and  Roland 
did  not  speak  until  they  were  at  his  door.  This 
professor  was  a  blond,  effusive,  large  man  of  enthu 
siastic  temperament.  He  was  delighted  to  listen  to 
Mrs.  Tresham,  and  he  saw  possibilities  for  her  that 


172  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

Signer  Maria  never  would  have  contemplated; 
though  when  Roland  told  him  what  Maria  had  said 
he  endorsed  his  opinion  so  far  as  to  admit  the  ex 
cellence  of  such  a  training  for  a  great  prima  donna. 

"  But  Mrs.  Tresham  may  learn  just  as  well  by  ex 
perience  as  by  method,"  he  averred.  "She  sings 
as  the  people  enjoy  singing.  She  sings  their  songs. 
She  has  a  powerful  voice,  which  will  grow  stronger 
with  use.  I  think  Mr.  Willis  will  give  her  an 
immediate  engagement.  Suppose  we  go  and  see. 
Willis  is  at  the  hall,  I  should  say,  about  this  time." 

This  seemed  a  practical  and  flattering  offer,  and 
Roland  gladly  accepted  it.  Willis  Hall  was  soon 
reached.  It  was  used  only  for  popular  concerts  and 
very  slight  dramas  in  which  there  was  a  great  deal 
of  singing  and  dancing.  It  had  a  well-appointed 
stage  and  scenery,  but  the  arrangement  of  the  seats 
showed  a  general  democracy  and  a  great  freedom 
of  movement  for  the  audience. 

"Willis  is  always  on  the  lookout  for  novelties," 
said  Professor  Harrison,  "  and  I  am  sure  these  fish 
ing  songs  will  'fetch'  such  an  audience  as  he  has." 

As  he  was  speaking  Mr.  Willis  approached.  He 
listened  to  Professor  Harrison's  opinion  and  kept 
his  eyes  on  Denas  while  he  did  so.  He  thought  her 
appearance  taking,  and  was  pleased  to  give  her 
voice  a  trial.  The  hall  was  empty  and  very  dull, 
but  a  piano  was  pulled  forward  to  the  front  of  the 
stage  and  Roland  took  his  seat  before  it.  Denas 
was  told  to  step  to  the  front  and  sing  to  the  two 
gentlemen  in  the  gallery.  They  applauded  her  first 
song  enthusiastically,  and  Denas  sang  each  one 


A  PIECE  OF  MONEY  AND  A  SONG.       173 

better.  But  it  was  not  their  applause  she  listened 
to — it  was  the  soft  praises  of  Roland,  his  assurances 
of  her  success,  which  stimulated  her  even  beyond 
her  natural  power. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  trial  Mr.  Willis  offered 
Denas  twelve  pounds  a  week,  and  if  she  proved  a 
favourite  the  sum  was  to  be  gradually  increased. 
The  sum,  though  but  a  pittance  of  Roland's  dreams, 
was  at  least  a  livelihood  and  an  earnest  of  advance, 
and  it  was  readily  accepted.  Then  the  little  com 
pany  sat  down  upon  the  empty  stage  and  discussed 
the  special  songs  and  costumes  in  which  Denas  was 
to  make  her  de"but. 

Never  before  in  all  his  life  had  Roland  found 
business  so  interesting.  He  said  to  Denas,  as  they 
talked  over  the  affair  at  their  own  fireside,  that  he 
thought  he  also  had  found  his  vocation.  He  felt  at 
home  on  the  stage.  He  never  had  felt  at  home  in 
a  bank  or  in  a  business  office.  He  was  determined 
to  study,  and  create  a  few  great  characters,  and 
become  an  actor.  He  felt  the  power;  it  was  in 
him,  he  said  complacently.  "Now,"  he  added, 
"  Denas,  if  you  become  a  great  singer  and  I  a  great 
actor,  we  shall  have  the  world  at  our  feet.  And  I 
like  actors  and  those  kind  of  people.  I  feel  at 
home,  with  them.  I  like  the  life  they  lead — the 
jolly,  come-day  go-day,  wandering  kind  of  life.  I 
never  was  meant  for  a  respectable  man  of  business. 
No;  the  stage!  the  stage!  That  is  my  real  life. 
I  am  certain  of  it.  I  wonder  I  never  thought  of  it 
before." 

It  had  been    arranged  that   Denas  was  to  open 


174  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

with  Neil  Gow's  matchless  song  of  "  Caller  Herrin*  !  " 
and  her  dress  was  of  course  that  of  an  idealized 
Newhaven  fisher-girl.  Her  short,  many-coloured 
skirts,  her  trig  latched  shoon,  her  open  throat,  and 
beatiful  bare  arms  lifted  to  the  basket  upon  her 
head  was  a  costume  which  suited  her  to  admiration. 
When  she  came  stepping  down  the  stage  to  the  im 
mortal  notes,  and  her  voice  thrilled  the  house  with 
the  ringing  musical  "cry"  that  none  hear  and  ever 
forget : 


Cal  -  ler  her-  rin'  !    cal  -  ler  her-  rin'  !     cal  -  ler  her-rin*  ! 


the  assembly  broke  into  rapturous  delight.  It  was 
a  song  not  above  their  comprehension  and  their 
feeling.  It  was  interpreted  by  one  to  whom  the 
interpretation  was  as  natural  as  breathing.  She 
was  recalled  again,  and  again,  and  again,  and  the 
uproar  of  approval  only  ceased  when  the  next  singer 
advanced  with  a  roll  of  music  in  his  hand.  He  was 
a  pale,  sentimental  young  man  whose  forte  was 
despairing  love-songs,  but 

"  The  last  links  are  broken 
That  bound  me  to  thee  " 

had  little  interest  after  Mademoiselle  Denasia's 
unique  melody.  For  it  was  by  this  name  Denas  had 
consented  to  be  known,  the  French  prefix  having  but 
a  very  indefinite  significance  to  her  mind.  Roland 
had  told  her  that  it  meant  a  lady,  and  that  all  singers 
were  either  mademoiselle  or  madame,  and  that  she 


A  PIECE  OF  MONEY  AND  A  SONG.        175 

was  too  young  for  madame,  and  the  explanation  had 
been  satisfactory. 

Certainly,  if  signs  could  be  trusted  Mademoiselle 
Denasia  was  likely  to  be  a  name  in  many  mouths; 
for  her  second  and  third  songs  were  even  more 
startling  in  their  success  than  "  Caller  Herrin',"  and 
Mr.  Willis  would  permit  no  further  recalls. 

"We  must  give  them  Denasia  in  small  doses," 
he  said,  laughing;  "she  is  too  precious  to  make  com 
mon,"  and  Roland  winced  a  moment  at  the  familiar 
tone  in  which  his  wife's  name  -was  spoken.  But 
both  alike  were  under  a  spell.  The  intoxicating  cup 
of  public  applause  was  at  their  lips.  Their  brains 
were  full  of  the  wildest  dreams,  their  hearts  full  of 
the  wildest  hopes.  No  consideration  at  that  time 
could  have  turned  their  feet  aside  from  the  flower- 
covered,  treacherous  path  they  were  so  gayly 
treading. 

Such  a  life  would  have  simply  been  beyond  the 
power  of  John  and  Joan  Penelles  to  imagine.  Its 
riot  of  dress  and  emotions  and  its  sinful  extrava 
gance  in  every  direction  would  have  been  to  them 
an  astounding  revelation  of  the  possibilities  of  life. 
As  it  was,  their  anxiety  took  mainly  one  direction: 
the  uncertainty  attending  the  marriage  of  their 
daughter.  Denas  had  indeed  said  she  was  Roland's 
wife,  but  the  St.  Penfer  News  implied  a  very  differ 
ent  relationship;  and  John  had  all  that  superstitious 
belief  in  a  newspaper  which  is  so  often  an  attribute 
of  ignorance. 

At  any  rate,  the  want  of  authentic  data  about  the 
marriage  humiliated  and  made  him  miserable.  Two 


176  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

more  weeks  had  passed  since  that  eventful  Sunday 
night  service  at  St.  Clair,  and  yet  John  had  no  assur 
ance  of  a  more  certain  character  to  rely  on.  Three 
or  four  illustrated  papers  had  been  received  with 
"  love  from  your  daughter,  Denas  Tresham,"  written 
on  the  title-page;  but  the  claim  thus  made  satisfied 
no  one  but  Joan.  Joan  believed  in  the  validity  of 
the  name,  and  handed  around  the  sheets  with  a  con 
fidence  few  cared  to  in  any  degree  dispute. 

The  third  Sunday  was  an  important  one  to  the 
fisher-folk.  There  was  to  be  a  missionary  sermon 
preached  in  the  St.  Clair  chapel,  and  John  and  Joan 
went  there.  The  chapel  was  crowded.  Joan  got  a 
seat,  but  John  lingered  in  the  small  vestibule  within 
the  door  among  the  few  brethren  waiting  for  the 
strange  preacher.  It  was  the  same  person  who  had 
married  Roland  and  Denas,  and  after  he  had  shaken 
himself  free  from  his  dripping  cloak  he  looked  at 
the  men  around  him,  and  his  eyes  fell  upon  John. 
And  probably  all  the  circumstances  of  that  marriage 
were  either  well  known  or  accurately  divined,  for  he 
took  the  big  fisherman  by  the  hand  and  said  cheer 
fully: 

"  John  Penelles,  I  am  glad,  very  glad  indeed  to 
meet  you.  I  suppose  you  know  that  it  was  I  who 
married  your  daughter?" 

If  a  fixed  star  had  fallen  at  John's  feet  he  could 
not  have  been  more  amazed.  His  large  face  light 
ened  from  within,  he  clasped  firmly  the  preacher's 
hand,  but  was  so  slow  in  forcing  speech  from  his 
swelling  heart  that  the  preacher  continued: 

"  Yes,   they  came  to  me,  and  I  remembered  your 


A  PIECE  OF  MONEY  AND  A  SONG.       177 

pretty  child.  I  tied  them  true  and  fast,  you  may  be 
sure  of  that,  John." 

"Where,  sir?" 

"In  Plymouth  Wesleyan  chapel,  to  be  sure." 

"Thank  God!  Thank  you  too,  sir!  You  might 
say  so — some  people  here  be  slow  to  believe,  sir, 
and  it  be  breaking  my  heart,  it  be  indeed,  sir." 

There  was  only  a  nod  and  smile  in  reply,  but  John 
was  extremely  happy.  He  tried  to  get  near  to  Joan 
and  tell  her;  but  the  aisles  were  full  and  the  ser 
vice  was  beginning.  John  held  his  own  service, 
and  the  singing,  and  the  prayer,  and  preaching  were 
just  a  joyful  accompaniment  to  the  thanksgiving  in 
his  heart.  At  length  the  service  was  over,  and  the 
preacher  lifted  a  number  of  slips  of  paper  and 
began  to  read  aloud  the  announcements  made  on 
them.  Missionary  meetings,  tea  meetings  for  mis 
sions,  a  bazaar  at  St.  Penfer  for  missions,  a  Bible 
meeting,  a  class  meeting,  and  the  service  for  that 
evening.  Then,  while  the  congregation  were  still 
expectant,  he  said  in  a  clear,  pleasant  voice: 

"  I  am  requested  also  to  say  that  on  December 
the  1 7th,  on  Tuesday  morning  at  nine  o'clock,  I 
united  in  the  holy  bands  of  marriage  Denasia,  the 
daughter  of  John  Penelles,  fisher  of  St.  Penfer,  to 
Roland  Tresham,  gentleman  of  that  place.  The 
ceremony  was  performed  by  me  in  the  Wesleyan 
chapel  at  Plymouth;  myself,  my  wife,  and  two 
daughters  being  witnesses  to  it.  We  will  now  sing 
the  444th  hymn : 

"  '  Lord  over  all,  if  Thou  hast  made, 

Hast  ransomed  every  soul  of  man.'  " 
13 


178  A    SINGER  FROM   THE  SEA. 

And  all  the  congregation  rose,  and  in  the  rising  the 
conscious  glance  that  passed  through  the  chapel 
was  lost  in  a  more  general  purpose.  It  was  pre 
sumed,  at  least,  that  everyone  was  singing  a  prayer 
for  the  heathen.  Only  Joan  Penelles  made  no  effort 
to  think  of  India  or  Africa.  Her  face,  full  of 
radiant  assurance,  looked  confidently  over  the  crowd, 
seeking  her  husband's  mutual  glance  of  pleasure. 
Her  faith  had  been  justified.  Her  girl  was  an  hon 
ourable  wife — the  wife  of  a  gentleman  well  known 
to  all.  She  had  no  longer  any  need  to  hide  the 
wounding  look  or  doubtful  word  in  a  protesting  atti 
tude,  as  painful  to  her  as  it  was  offensive  to  others. 
Well,  it  is  a  very  hard  thing  to  rejoice  with  those 
that  do  rejoice;  evidently  in  that  little  chapel  i't 
was  easier  for  the  worshippers  to  be  sorry  for  the 
heathen  than  to  be  glad  for  their  brother  and  sis 
ter  Penelles.  Never  had  John  and  Joan  felt  them 
selves  so  far  away  from  the  sympathy  of  their  fellows. 
Only  a  few  rough  men  who  handled  the  nets  with 
John,  and  who  knew  how  hard  the  duty  had  been  to 
him  since  his  little  girl  went  away,  said  a  word  of 
congratulation.  But  one  and  another  of  these,  as 
they  passed  John  and  Joan  on  their  way  home,  said 
a  hearty  "  Praise  God,  brother  John,"  or  a  "God 
bless  you  both,  'twas  good  news  for  you  this  morn 
ing."  But,  with  or  without  sympathy,  the  happy 
father  and  mother  walked  to  their  house  that  day 
up-head  and  bravely.  Their  hearts  had  been  miracu 
lously  lightened,  and  it  was  not  until  the  burden 
had  rolled  away  that  they  knew  how  woefully  heavy 
it  had  been. 


A  PIECE  OF  MONEY  AND  A  SONG.       179 

The  next  afternoon,  when  the  wind  was  blowing 
inland  too  fiercely  to  permit  boats  to  leave  the  har 
bour,  a  man  who  had  been  up  the  cliff  brought  back 
with  him  a  letter  for  the  Penelles.  It  was  evidently 
from  Denas.  John  looked  at  the  postmark,  "  Lon 
don,"  and  turned  it  around  and  around  till  Joan  was 
nervous.  "  Aw,  then,  John,  do  open  it,  and  read 
what  be  inside — do,  my  dear!"  And  John  read: 

"  DEAR  FATHER  AND  MOTHER: — I  have  been  in 
tending  to  write  to  you  every  day,  but  I  have  been 
so  happy  that  the  days  went  away  like  a  dream.  I 
wish  you  knew  my  dear  Roland  as  I  do.  He  is  the 
kindest  of  men,  the  most  generous,  the  dearest  in 
the  whole  world.  He  does  nothing  but  try  how  to 
give  me  pleasure.  He  has  bought  me  such  lovely 
dresses,  and  rings,  and  bracelets,  and  he  takes  me 
everywhere.  I  never,  never  did  think  life  could  be 
so  happy.  I  am  going  to  have  lessons  too.  I  am 
to  be  taught  how  to  sing  and  to  do  other  things 
right,  and  your  little  Denas  is  the  very  happiest 
girl  in  the  world.  London  is  such  a  grand  place, 
the  very  streets  are  all  shows.  Your  loving  daughter, 

"  DENAS  TRESHAM. 

"  P.  S. — Perhaps  you  may  wonder  where  we  were 
married.  It  was  at  Plymouth,  by  the  Wesleyan 
preacher.  Father  knows  him,  I  think.  D.  T. " 

A  dead  silence  followed  the  reading  of  the  letter. 
Joan  sat  upright  with  a  troubled  face.  She  had 
been  washing  the  dinner  dishes;  the  towel  lay 
across  her  lap,  and  her  fingers  pleated  and  unpleated 
the  bit  of  coarse  linen.  John  laid  his  arms  across 


180  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

his  knees  and  dropped  a  stern  face  toward  them. 
The  bit  of  white  paper  was  in  his  big  brown  fingers. 
He  did  not  speak  a  word;  his  heart  was  full,  his 
eyes  were  full,  his  tongue  was  heavy  and  dumb. 
Joan  grew  restless  and  hot  with  anger,  for  she  was 
wounded  in  every  sense. 

"Aw,  my  dear,  she  be  so  happy  with  that  man 
she  do  forget  the  days  she  was  happy  with  you  and 
me,  John.  She  do  forget  all  and  everything.  Aw, 
then,  'tis  a  cruel,  thoughtless  letter.  Cruel  beyond 
words  to  tell — dreadful!  aw,  dreadful!  God  help 
us!  And  I  do  wish  I  could  forget  her!  And  I  do 
be  sorry  she  was  ever  born." 

"Whist!  whist!  my  old  dear.  She  has  gone  into 
the  wilderness.  Our  one  little  ewe  lamb  has  gone 
into  the  wilderness,  and  aw,  my  dear,  'twill  keep 
us  busy  all  night  and  day  to  send  love  and  prayer 
enough  after  her.  There  be  wolves  there,  Joan; 
wolves,  my  dear,  ready  to  devour — and  the  man  she 
loves,  he  be  one  of  them.  Poor  little  Denas!" 

Then  Joan  went  on  with  her  housework,  but  John 
sat  silent,  bending  down  toward  the  letter.  And 
by  and  by  his  white  face  glowed  with  a  dull  red 
colour,  and  he  tore  the  letter  up,  tore  it  very  slowly 
into  narrow  ribbon-like  strips,  and  let  them  fall, 
one  by  one,  at  his  feet.  He  was  in  a  mood  Joan  did 
not  care  to  trouble.  It  reminded  her  of  the  day 
when  he  had  felled  Jacob  Trenager.  She  was  glad 
to  see  him  rise  and  go  to  the  inner  room,  glad  to 
hear  that  he  bolted  the  door  after  him.  For  in 
that  temper  it  was  better  that  John  should  com 
plain  to  God  than  talk  with  any  human  being. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A    VISIT    TO    ST.  PENFER. 

"  Oh,  waly  waly,  but  love  be  bonny 

A  little  while  while  it  is  new  ; 
But  when  'tis  auld  it  waxeth  cauld 
And  fades  away  like  morning  dew." 

— OLD  SONG. 

"  Oh,  and  is  all  forgot — 
All  school  days'  friendship,  childhood's  innocence  ? 

Our  sex  as  well  as  I  may  chide  you  for  it, 
Though  I  alone  do  feel  the  injury." 

— SHAKESPEARE. 

DENASIA  made  her  debut  in  the  last  ten  days 
of  January,  and  she  retained  the  favour  of 
that  public  which  frequented  Willis  Hall  for  three 
months.  Then  her  reputation  was  a  little  worn; 
people  whistled  and  sang  her  songs  and  were 
pleased  with  their  own  performance  of  them.  And 
Roland,  also,  had  tired  a  little  of  the  life — of  its 
regularity  and  its  obligations.  He  was  now  often 
willing  to  let  any  other  performer  who  desired  to 
do  so  take  his  place  at  the  piano.  He  began  to 
have  occasional  lookings-backward  to  Burrell  Court 
and  the  respectability  it  represented. 

Then  at  the  close  of  April  Denasia  fell   ill.     The 
181 


1 82  A    SINGER   FROM   THE   SEA. 

poor  girl  fretted  at  the  decline  of  enthusiasm  in  her 
audience.  She  made  stupendous  efforts  to  regain 
her  place  in  the  popular  favour,  and  she  failed  be 
cause  of  the  natural  law  which  few  are  strong  enough 
to  defy — that  change  is  as  necessary  to  amusement 
as  fidelity  is  to  duty.  Denasia  did  not  indeed  reason 
about  the  event;  the  simple  fact  that  she  had  no 
recalls  and  no  clamorous  approval  made  her  miser 
able,  and  then  sickness  followed. 

She  was  very  ill  indeed,  and  for  four  weeks  con 
fined  to  her  room;  and  when  she  was  able  to  con 
sider  a  return  to  the  hall,  Roland  found  that  her 
place  had  been  taken  by  a  Spanish  singer  with  a 
mandolin  and  a  wonderful  dance.  That  was  really 
a  serious  disappointment  to  the  young  couple,  for" 
during  the  month  money  had  been  going  out  and 
none  coming  in.  For  even  when  Denasia  had 
been  making  twenty-five  pounds  a  week,  they  had 
lived  and  dressed  up  to  the  last  shilling;  so  that  a 
month's  enforced  idleness  and  illness  placed  them 
deeply  in  debt  and  uncomfortably  pressed  for  the 
wherewithal  to  meet  debt. 

Denasia  also  had  been  much  weakened  by  her  ill 
ness.  Her  fine  form  and  colour  were  impaired,  she 
was  nervous  and  despondent;  and  a  suffering,  sickly 
wife  was  quite  out  of  Roland's  calculations  and 
very  much  out  of  his  sympathies.  Poverty  had  a  bad 
effect  upon  him.  To  be  without  money  to  buy  the 
finest  brand  of  cigars,  to  be  annoyed  by  boarding- 
house  keepers,  tailors,  and  costumers,  to  have  to 
buy  medicines  with  cash  when  he  was  without  his 
usual  luxuries,  was  a  condition  of  affairs  that  struck 


A    VISIT   TO    ST.    PEN  PER.  183 

Roland  as  extremely  improper  for  a  young  man  of 
his  family  and  education. 

And  he  disliked  now  to  interview  managers.  Mad 
emoiselle  Denasia  was  a  recognised  member  of  the 
profession  which  more  than  any  other  demands  that 
everyone  stand  upon  their  merits;  and  Denasia  had 
not  been  a  very  pronounced  success.  She  remained 
just  about  where  she  had  begun,  and  managers  nat 
urally  thought  that  she  had  done  the  best  of  which 
she  was  capable.  That  best  was  not  a  phenomenal 
one,  and  Roland,  as  her  husband  and  business 
agent,  received  no  extraordinary  amount  of  respect. 
He  was  offended  where  he  had  no  reason  for  offence 
— offended  often  because  everyone  did  not  recog 
nise  him  as  a  member  of  an  old  Cornish  family 
and  the  son  of  an  ex-lord  mayor  of  London.  Often 
he  felt  obliged,  in  order  to  satisfy  his  own  self- 
respect,  to  make  the  fact  known ;  and  the  chaff,  or 
indifference,  or  incredulity,  with  which  his  claims 
were  received  made  him  change  his  opinions  re 
garding  the  "jolly  company  of  actors."  In  fact,  he 
was  undoubtedly  at  this  period  of  Denasia's  career 
her  very  worst  enemy;  for  whatever  Denasia  might 
be,  Roland  and  his  pretensions  were  usually  re 
garded  as  a  great  bore. 

One  afternoon  in  May  he  became  thoroughly  dis 
gusted  with  the  life  he  had  chosen  for  himself.  The 
bright  sunshine  made  the  shabby  carpet  and  taw 
dry  furniture  and  soiled  mirrors  intolerably  vulgar. 
They  had  just  finished  a  badly  cooked,  crossly 
served,  untidy  dinner,  and  Roland  had  no  cigar  to 
mend  it.  Denasia  had  not  eaten  at  all;  she  lay  on 


1 84  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

the  bright  blue  sofa  with  shut  eyes,  and  her  faded 
beauty  and  faded  dress  were  offensive  to  the  fastid 
ious  young  man. 

She  was  thinking  of  her  father's  cottage,  of 
the  love  at  its  hearth,  and  of  the  fresh  salt  winds 
blowing  all  around  it.  Roland  half-divined  her 
thoughts,  and  his  own  wandered  to  Burrell  Court 
and  his  long-neglected  sister. 

Suddenly  he  resolved  to  go  and  see  her.  Eliza 
beth  had  always  plenty  of  money,  then  why  should 
he  be  without  it?  And  the  desire  having  entered 
his  heart,  he  was  as  imperative  as  a  spoiled  child  for 
its  gratification.  Denasia's  physical  condition  did 
not  appeal  to  him  in  any  degree;  he  could  not  help 
her  weakness  and  suffering,  and  certainly  it  was" 
very  inconvenient  for  him.  He  felt  at  that  hour  as 
if  Denasia  had  broken  her  part  of  their  mutual  com 
pact,  which  had  not  included  illness  or  loss  of 
prestige  and  beauty.  He  turned  sharply  to  her  and 
said: 

"  Denasia,  I  am  going  to  St.  Penfer.  I  shall  have 
to  sell  a  ring  or  something  valuable  in  order  to  get 
the  fare,  but  I  see  no  other  way.  Elizabeth  never 
disappointed  my  expectations;  she  will  give  me 
money,  I  am  sure." 

"  Don't  leave  me,  Roland.  I  will  get  well,  I 
will  indeed,  dear.  I  am  better  this  afternoon.  In 
a  few  days — in  a  week,  Roland,  I  can  find  some 
place  to  sing.  Please  have  a  little  patience.  Oh, 
do,  my  dear!" 

"  Little  patience !  What  are  you  saying,  Denasia  ? 
You  are  very  ungrateful !  Have  I  not  had  patience 


A    VISIT    TO    ST.    PEN  PER.  185 

for  a  whole  month  ?  Have  I  not  spent  even  my 
cigar-money  for  you ?  Patience,  indeed!" 

"  Is  there  nowhere  but  St.  Penfer  ?  No  person 
but  Elizabeth?" 

"  I  can  go  to  St.  Merryn's,  if  you  like.  Give  me 
an  order  for  the  money  in  your  name  at  St.  Merryn's 
Bank." 

She  turned  sullen  in  a  moment.  "  I  have  told 
you  a  thousand  times,  Roland,  I  would  rather  die 
of  hunger  than  rob  my  father." 

"Very  well,  then,  why  do  you  complain  if  I  go  to 
my  own  people?  I  hope  when  I  return  you  will  be 
better." 

"Roland!  Roland!  You  are  surely  not  going 
to  leave  me — in  a  moment — without  anything?" 

Her  cry  so  full  of  anguish  brought  him  back  to 
her  side;  but  his  purpose  had  taken  full  possession 
of  him;  only  he  left  her  with  those  kisses  and 
promises  which  women  somehow  manage  to  live 
upon.  He  still  loved  her  in  his  way  of  loving,  but 
his  way  demanded  so  many  pleasant  accidentals 
that  it  was  impossible  for  Denasia  always  to  provide 
them.  And  yet,  having  once  realised,  in  a  great 
measure,  his  ideal  of  her  value  to  his  happiness,  he 
did  feel  that  her  sudden  break-down  in  health  was  a 
failure  he  ought  to  show  disapproval  of. 

However,  there  was  method  even  in  Roland's 
selfish  plans.  He  did  not  wish  to  find  Mr.  Burrell 
at  St.  Penfer,  so  he  went  to  the  bank  and  ascer 
tained  his  whereabouts.  He  was  told  that  Mr. 
Burrell  had  just  left  for  Berlin,  and  was  likely  to 
be  a  week  or  ten  days  away.  This  information  quite 


1 86  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

elated  Roland.  He  sold  his  watch  and  took  the 
first  train  to  Cornwall.  And  as  he  was  certain  that 
Elizabeth  would  have  settled  his  bill  at  the  Black 
Lion,  he  we,nt  there  with  all  his  old  swaggering 
good-humour  and  thoroughly  refreshed  himself  be 
fore  going  out  to  Burrell  Court. 

Elizabeth  gave  him  a  hearty  welcome;  she  was 
indeed  particularly  glad  to  see  him  just  then.  She 
was  lonely  in  the  absence  of  her  husband;  she  had 
just  had  a  slight  disagreement  with  the  ladies  at  a 
church  meeting;  she  was  feeling  her  isolation  and 
her  want  of  family  support;  and  she  had  met,  for 
the  first  time  since  their  interview,  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Farrar,  who  had  presumed  to  arrest  her  coachman 
and,  in  the  presence  of  her  servants,  congratulate 
her  on  the  marriage  of  her  brother  and  her  friend. 
Under  the  circumstances,  she  had  judged  it  best  to 
make  no  remarks;  but  she  was  very  angry,  and  not 
sorry  to  have  the  culprit  in  her  presence  and  tell 
him  exactly  what  she  thought  of  his  folly  and  dis 
grace. 

She  kept  the  lecture,  however,  until  they  had 
dined  and  were  alone;  then,  as  he  sat  serenely  smok 
ing  one  of  Mr.  Burrell's  finest  cigars,  she  said: 

"  I  hope  you  are  come  back  to  me,  Roland.  I 
hope  you  have  left  that  woman  for  ever." 

"Who  do  you  mean  by  'that  woman,'  Elizabeth?" 

"  De —     You  know  who  I  mean." 

"Denas!  Left  Denas!  Left  my  wife!  That  is  ab 
surd,  Elizabeth!  I  wanted  to  see  you.  I  could  not 
bear  to  be 'out' with  you  any  longer.  You  know, 
dear,  that  you  are  my  only  blood  relative.  Denas 


A    VISIT   TO   ST.    PEN  PER.  187 

is  my  relative  by  marriage.  Blood  is  thicker  than 
— everything." 

"  Roland,  you  know  how  I  love  you.  You  are 
the  first  person  I  remember.  All  my  life  long  you 
have  been  first  in  my  heart.  How  do  you  think  I 
liked  to  be  put  aside  for — that  fisher-girl  ?  It 
nearly  broke  my  heart  with  shame  and  sorrow." 

"I  ought  to  have  told  you,  Elizabeth.  I  did 
behave  badly  to  you.  I  am  ashamed  of  myself. 
Forgive  me,  darling  sister."  And  he  pulled  his  chair 
to  her  side,  and  put  his  arm  around  her  neck,  and 
kissed  her  with  no  simulated  affection.  For  he 
would  indeed  have  been  heartless  had  he  been  in 
sensible  to  the  true  love  which  softened  every  tone 
in  Elizabeth's  voice  and  made  her  handsome  face 
shine  with  tender  interest  and  unselfish  solicitude. 

"  I  ought  to  have  told  you,  Elizabeth.  I  believe 
you  are  noble  enough  to  have  accepted  Denas  for 
my  sake." 

"  I  am  not.  Roland.  Nothing  could  have  made 
me  accept  her.  I  have  taken  a  personal  dislike  to 
her.  I  am  sure  that  I  cannot  even  do  her  justice. " 

"She  has  been,  very  ill.  She  is  still  very  weak. 
I  have  been  unable  to  get  her  all  the  comforts  she 
ought  to  have  had — unable  to  take  her  to  the  sea 
side,  though  the  doctor  told  me  it  was  an  impera 
tive  necessity.  We  have  been  very  poor,  but  not 
unhappy. " 

"  I  understood  she  was  making  a  great  deal  of 
money  with  her  trashy,  vulgar  little  songs." 

"  She  was  until  she  fell  ill.  And  whatever  her 
songs  are,  they  have  been  very  much  admired," 


1 88  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

"  By  her  own  class.  And  you  let  her  sing  for 
your  living!  I  am  amazed  at  you,  Roland!" 

"  I  do  not  see  why.  You  wanted  me  to  marry 
Caroline  Burrell  and  let  her  support  me  out  of  the 
money  old  Burrell  worked  for.  Denas  loves  me, 
and  the  money  she  gives  me  is  given  with  love. 
Old  Burrell  never  saw  me,  and  if  he  had  I  am  quite 
sure  he  would  have  hated  me  and  despised  me  as  a 
fortune-hunter.  Denas  is  a  noble  little  darling. 
She  has  never  inferred,  either  by  word  or  look,  that 
she  sang  for  my  living.  It  took  you  to  do  that, 
Elizabeth.  Besides,  I  help  Denas  to  make  money. 
I  arrange  her  business  and  I  play  her  accompani 
ments,  and,  as  I  said,  I  love  her  and  she  loves  me. 
Why,  I  have  done  without  cigars  to  buy  medicines- 
for  her;  and  if  that  isn't  a  proof  of  my  devotion, 
I  do  not  know  how  to  give  one!  I  can  tell  you 
that  Mademoiselle  Denasia  is  a  great  favourite  with 
everyone." 

"Mademoiselle  Denasia!"  cried  Elizabeth  with 
the  utmost  scorn.  "Mademoiselle!  and  Denasia! 
However,  she  might  well  change  her  name." 

"  She  did  not  change  her  name.  She  was  bap 
tised  Denasia." 

"  Robert  went  to  hear  her  sing.  He  says  it  was 
in  a  fourth-rate  place,  and  I  can  tell  you  he  was 
burning  with  indignation  to  see  his  brother-in-law 
playing  a  piano  there." 

"  Then  he  ought  to  let  his  anger  burn  to  some 
purpose.  Signer  Maria  says  that  if  Denasia  had 
proper  masters  and  was  sent  to  Italv  for  two  or 
three  years  she  could  sing  in  grand  opera.  Mind, 


A     VISIT   TO    ST.   PEN  PER.  189 

Maria  says  that;  not  I.     Suppose  you  get  Robert  to 
send  Denas  to  Italy." 

"  I  will  do  nothing  at  all  for  Denas.  And  I  think, 
Roland,  that  you  ought  to  do  something  for  your 
self.  I  hate  to  think  of  my  own  brother  taking  his 
living  from  that  fisherman's  daughter.  It  is  a 
shame!  Father  brought  you  up  like  a  gentleman, 

sent  you  to  college,  gave  you  an  opportunity " 

"  If  father  had  given  me  a  profession  of  any  kind, 
if  he  had  put  me  in  the  army  or  the  navy,  I  should 
be  to  blame.  If  he  had  bought  me  a  kit  of  carpen 
ters'  tools  and  had  me  taught  how  to  use  them, 
I  should  be  no  man  at  all  if  I  looked  to  a  woman 
for  a  living.  But  he  did  not.  He  sent  me  to  col 
lege,  gave  me  expensive  tastes,  and  then  got  me  a 
desk  in  a  bank,  where  the  only  prospect  before  me 
was  to  add  figures  for  the  rest  of  my  life  for  two 
pounds  a  week.  Naturally  I  looked  around  for 
something  more  to  my  liking.  I  found  Denasia.  I 
loved  her.  She  loved  me.  I  could  play,  she  could 
sing,  and  we  made  twenty-five  pounds  a  week. 
That  is  the  true  state  of  the  case." 

"And  do  you  intend  to  spend  your  life  playing 
accompaniments  to  fishing-songs?" 
"No.     I  am  studying  for  the  stage." 
"Roland  Tresham!     Roland  Tresham!" 
"  I  think  I  have  a  new  conception  of  the  character 
of  Orlando  and   I  flatter  myself  the  Romeo  is  yet 
to   be    played.      I    shall    attempt    it    next   winter. 
Now,  Elizabeth,   all   the  summer  is  before  us.     If 
you  will  not  ask   us  to  Burrell    Court,  then  do  in 
sisterly    kindness    send    us    to    some  quiet  sea-side 


190  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA 

place  to  study.  We  could,  of  course,  come  to  Pe- 
nelles'  cottage " 

"No,  you  could  not.  John  Penelles  would  not 
permit  you  to  enter  his  door.  He  says  he  will 
never  forgive  his  daughter  until  she  leaves  you  for 
ever.  I  understand  him.  I  cannot  fully  forgive 
you  while  you  remain  with  that  woman." 

"Who  told  you  John  Penelles  said  such  a  thing? 
I  do  not  believe  it." 

"Priscilla  Mohun.      He  said  it  to  her." 

"Ah!  He  would  not  say  it  to  Denasia.  And  it 
would  not  be  a  bad  place  to  study.  I  should  soon 
be  a  favourite  with  the  fishers.  I  know  how  to  get 
around  that  class  of  people,  and  I  am  fond  of  the 
sea  and  could  spend  a  month  very  comfortably 
there.  Cigars  make  any  place  comfortable." 

"You  are  talking  simple  nonsense,  Roland.  You 
know  it,  too.  Penelles  would  not  endure  your  pres 
ence  five  minutes." 

"  I  have  done  his  daughter  no  harm." 

"He  believes  that  you  have  ruined  her  immortal 
soul.  You  are  the  devil  incarnate  to  John  Penelles. 
He  would  not  let  you  put  your  foot  in  his  cottage. 
And  he  is  not  a  man  to  trifle  with.  He  knocked 
Jacob  Trenager  down,  and  the  man  goes  lame  ever 
since,  they  say." 

"  I  am  not  going  in  his  way  to  be  knocked  down. 
It  is  absolutely  necessary,  both  for  Denas  and  my 
self,  to  be  near  London.  If  we  had  the  means  I 
would  go  to  Broadstairs  or  perhaps  Hastings." 

"  Do  you  want  to  ask  me  for  money,  Roland  ?  If 
so,  be  man  enough  to  ask  me  plainly." 


A    VISIT   TO    ST.    PEN  PER.  191 

"Yes,  I  want  money,  Elizabeth.  I  want  you  to 
give  it  to  me.  I  have  not  troubled  you  for  a  long 
time,  have  I?  All  my  life  long  I  have  come  to 
you  for  money,  and  you  never  yet  refused  me. 
My  dear  sister,  I  remember  that  you  once  sold  a 
brooch  for  me  when  we  were  both  children."  He 
kissed  her  and  was  silent,  and  Elizabeth's  face  was 
wet  with  tears. 

"I  could  give  the  last  shilling  I  had  to  you,  Ro 
land,"  she  said,  "but  it  is  hard  to  ask  me  to  rob 
myself  for  that  woman." 

"  She  is  my  wife.  I  want  her  to  get  strong  and 
well.  She  is  a  comfort  and  a  pleasure  to  me.  You 
were  always  glad  to  give  me  money  for  my  comforts 
and  pleasures.  You  never  before  asked  me  what 
they  were  or  said:  'You  cannot  have  money  for 
such  or  such  a  purpose. '  You  gave  me  money  for 
whatever  I  wanted.  Now  I  want  Denas. " 

"Mademoiselle  Denasia!" 

"Well,  then,  Denasia.  I  want  Denasia  as  I  want 
my  cigars  or  any  other  pleasant  thing  in  life.  Does 
it  matter  to  you,  if  the  money  makes  me  happy,  how 
I  spend  it?" 

"If  you  put  the  question  in  that  light  I  do  not 
suppose  it  does  matter."  Then  after  a  moment's 
pause:  "  Every  shilling  will  be  a  coal  of  fire  upon 
Mademoiselle  Denasia's  head.  There  is  nothing 
wrong  in  that  consideration — it  is  perfectly  Chris 
tian." 

"I  should  say  it  was  perfectly  unchristian;  but, 
then,  I  am  only  a  sinner.  However,  Elizabeth,  if 
you  can  help  me  to  get  Denasia  to  the  sea-side  the 


*92  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

action  will  be  a  good  one,  and  we  need  not  go 
about  to  question  the  motives  for  it.  I  think  one 
hundred  pounds  will  keep  us  until  Denasia  is  able 
to  sing  again  or  I  get  an  engagement  as  Romeo. 
I  shall  make  up  splendidly  as  Romeo.  You  must 
come  and  see  me,  Elizabeth." 

"Not  for  anything  in  life!  And  one  hundred 
pounds  is  a  large  sum  of  money.  I  cannot  afford  it. " 

"But,  Elizabeth,  I  must  have  one  hundred.  I 
need  every  penny  of  it.  I  cannot  do  with  less. 
Give  me  one  hundred,  Elizabeth." 

"I  tell  you  it  will  trouble  me  very  much  to  spare 
a  hundred  pounds.  It  will  indeed,  Roland."  , 

But  Roland  stuck  to  the  idea  of  one  hundred 
pounds,  and  finally  Elizabeth  gave  way  before  his 
entreaties.  She  looked  at  the  handsome  fellow  and 
sighed  hopelessly.  She  said,  "I  will  give  it  to  you, 
and  do  as  you  wish  with  it."  Why  should  she  now 
look  for  consideration  from  her  brother?  He  had 
never  yet  reached  higher  ground  than  "I  want;" 
and  to  expect  Roland  to  look  beyond  himself  was 
to  expect  the  great  miracle  that  never  comes. 

He  remained  with  his  sister  ten  days,  and  thor 
oughly  enjoyed  the  change  of  life.  And  indeed  he 
found  himself  quite  a  little  hero  in  St.  Penfer. 
Miss  Mohun  met  him  with  smiles;  she  asked  sweetly 
after  Mrs.  Tresham  and  never  once  named  the  fifty 
pounds  Roland  had  promised  her.  The  landlady 
of  the  Black  Lion  made  a  great  deal  of  him. 
She  came  herself  of  fisher-folk,  and  she  was  pleased 
that  the  young  gentleman  had  treated  her  caste 
honourably.  The  landlord  gave  him  cigars  and 


A    VISIT  TO   ST.   PENFER.  193 

wine,  and  all  the  old  companions  of  his  pleasures 
and  necessities  showed  him  that  they  approved  his 
conduct.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Farrar  made  a  point  of 
praising  him.  As  he  stood  with  the  landlord  of  the 
Black  Lion  at  the  open  door  of  the  inn,  he  said  to 
him: 

"  Mr.  Tresham,  I  respect  your  strength  of  char 
acter.  I  know  that  in  certain  circles  of  society  it 
is  considered  a  slight  offence  for  a  young  man  to 
seduce  a  girl  of  the  lower  orders;  but  that  a  mes 
alliance  with  her  is  a  social  crime  almost  unpardon 
able.  You  have  said  boldly  to  the  whole  community 
that  it  is  more  ungentlemanly  to  wrong  a  poor  girl's 
honour  than  to  marry  a  wife  below  your  own  sta 
tion.  Sir,  such  an  example  is  worth  all  the  sermons 
that  could  be  preached  on  the  subject." 

And  Roland  listened  to  all  the  spoken  and  un 
spoken  praise  given  him  with  a  smiling  appropri 
ation.  It  really  never  struck  him,  or  apparently 
anyone  else,  that  Denas  might  have  been  the 
person  who  took  care  of  her  own  honour;  or  that 
Roland  had  done  right  because  he  could  not  induce 
his  companion  to  do  wrong.  And  there  was  an 
other  popular  view  of  this  marriage  which  was  sin 
gularly  false — the  general  assumption  that  Denas 
had  been  greatly  honoured  by  it,  and  that  John  and 
Joan  Penelles  ought  to  be  pleased  and  satisfied. 
Why  not?  Such  a  decision  was  the  evident  one, 
and  how  many  people  have  the  time  or  the  interest 
in  any  subject  to  go  below  or  beyond  the  evident? 

One  morning  when  Roland  had  been  put  into  a 
very  good  humour  by  the  public  approval  of  his 
13 


194  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

conduct,  he  saw  John  Penelles  and  Tris  Penrose 
and  two  other  fishers  go  into  the  Ship  Inn  together. 
They  had  Lawyer  Tremaine  with  them,  and  were 
doubtless  met  to  complete  the  sale  or  purchase  of 
some  fishing-craft.  Roland  knew  that  it  would  be 
an  affair  to  occupy  two  or  three  hours,  and  he 
suddenly  resolved  to  go  down  the  cliff  and  inter 
view  his  mother-in-law.  It  would  please  Denasia, 
and  he  was  himself  in  that  reckless  mood  of  self- 
complacency  which  delights  in  testing  its  in 
fluence. 

Without  further  consideration  he  lit  a  fresh  cigar 
and  went  down  the  familiar  path.  It  was  full  of 
memories  of  his  wooing  of  Denas,  and  he  smiled 
with  a  soft  triumph  to  them.  And  the  exquisite 
morning,  the  thrushes  singing  to  the  sun,  the  fluting 
of  the  blackbirds,  the  south  wind  swinging  the  blue 
bells,  the  mystical  murmur  of  the  sea — all  these 
things  set  themselves  unconsciously  to  his  over 
weening  self-satisfaction. 

The  door  of  the  Penelles  cottage  v/as  wide  open, 
and  he  stood  a  moment  looking  into  it.  The  place 
had  an  Homeric  simplicity  and  beauty  which 
touched  his  sense  of  fitness.  On  the  snow-white 
hearth  there  was  a  handful  of  red  fire,  and  the 
bright  black  hob  held  the  shining  kettle.  A  rug 
of  knitted  bits  of  many-coloured  cloths  was  before 
it,  and  on  this  rug  stood  John's  big  cushioned 
chair.  The  floor  was  white  as  pipeclay  could 
make  it;  the  walls  covered  with  racks  of  showy 
crockery;  the  spotless  windows  quite  shaded  with 
blossoming  flowers;  and  the  deal  furniture  had  been 


A    VISIT    TO   ST.    PENFER.  195 

scrubbed  with  oatmeal  until  it  had  the  colour  and 
the  beauty  of  ivory. 

Joan  sat  with  her  back  to  the  door.  She  was 
perfectly  still.  At  her  feet  there  was  a  pile  of  nets, 
and  she  was  mending  the  broken  meshes.  When 
Roland  tapped  she  let  them  fall  and  stood  .upright. 
She  knew  him  at  once.  Her  fine  rosy  face  turned 
grey  as  ashes.  She  folded  her  arms  across  her 
breast  and  stood  looking  at  the  intruder.  For  a 
moment  they  remained  thus — the  gay,  handsome, 
fashionably-dressed  young  man  smiling  at  the  tall 
grave  woman  in  her  neat  print  gown  and  white 
linen  cap.  Roland  broke  the  silence. 

"I  am  Roland  Tresham,"  he  said  pleasantly. 

"  I  do  know  you.  What  be  you  come  for  ?  Is 
Denas — where  be  my  child?  Oh,  man,  why  don't 
you  say  the  words,  whatever  they  be  ?" 

"  I  am  sorry  if  I  frightened  you.  I  thought  you 
might  like  to  know  that  Denas  was  well  and  happy. " 

Then  Joan  went  back  to  her  nets  and  sat  down 
without  a  word. 

"  I  was  in  St.  Penfer  on  business,  and  I  thought 
you  would  like  to  know — might  like  to  know — you 
see,  I  was  here  on  business — " 

He  was  growing  every  moment  more  uncomfort 
able  and  embarrassed,  for  Joan  bent  busily  over 
her  work  and  her  back  was  to  him. 

"  You  see,  I  was  here  on  business.  I  wanted  to 
see  my  sister.  I  thought  you  would  like  to  know 
about  Denas." 

She  turned  suddenly  on  him  and  asked:  "Where 
be  my  child?" 


196  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

"I  left  Denas  in  London." 

"You  be  a  coward.  You  be  a  tenfold  coward. 
Why  didn'  you  bring  your  wife  home  with  you? 
Did  Denas  send  me  no  letter — no  word  for  myself — 
for  my  heart  only  ?  Speak  then;  I  want  my  letter. " 

"I  left  in  a  hurry.     She  had  no  time  to  write." 

"  Aw,  then,  why  did  you  come  here  without  a 
word  of  comfort?  You  be  cruel  as  well  as  cow 
ardly.  No  word!  No  letter!  No  time!  There 
then!  take  yourself  away  from  my  door.  'Twas  a 
wisht  cruel  thought  brought  you  here.  Aw,  then, 
a  thought  out  of  your  own  heart.  You  be  a  bad 
man!  dreadful!  dreadful!" 

"Come,  my  good  woman,  I  wish  to  be  kind."     .- 

"Good  woman!  Sure  enough!  but  I  have  my 
husband's  name,  thank  God,  and  there  then!  when 
you  speak  to  me  I  be  called  by  it — Joan  Penelles. 
And  Joan  Penelles  do  wish  you  would  turn  your 
back  on  this  house;  she  do  that,  for  you  do  have  a 
sight  of  ghastly  mean  old  ways — more  than  either 
big  or  little  devil  means  a  young  man  to  have. 
There  then!  Go  afore  John  Penelles  do  find  you 
here.  For  'twill  be  a  bad  hour  for  you  if  he  do — 
and  so  it  will !" 

"  I  did  not  expect  such  a  reception,  Mrs.  Pe 
nelles.  I  have  dealt  honourably  with  your  daugh 
ter." 

"  You  have  made  my  daughter  to  sin.  Aw,  then, 
I  will  not  talk  about  my  daughter  with  you.  No 
indeed!" 

"Have  you  no  message  to  send  to  Denas?" 

"  Denas   do    know    her   mother's    heart    and    her 


A    VISIT   TO    ST.    PEN  PER.  197 

father's  heart,  and  when  she  do  find  it  in  her  own 
heart  to  leave  that  sinful  place — the  the-a-tre — and 
dress  herself  like  a  decent  wife  and  a  good  woman, 
and  sing  for  God  and  not  for  the  devil,  and  sing 
for  love  and  not  for  money,  aw,  then,  who  will  love 
her  as  quick  and  as  warm  as  I  will  ?  But  if  you  do 
want  a  message,  tell  her  she  have  broken  her  good 
father's  life  in  two;  and  that  I  do  blame  myself  I 
ever  gave  her  suck !" 

Roland  listened  to  these  words  with  a  scoffing 
air  of  great  amusement;  he  looked  steadily  at  Joan 
with  a  smile  that  was  intolerable  to  her,  then  he 
raised  his  hat  with  an  elaborate  flourish  and  said: 

"Good-morning,  Mrs.  Penelles. " 

No  notice  was  taken  of  this  salute,  and  he  added 
with  an  offensive  mirthfulness: 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  say,  '  Good-morning, 
mother. '  ' 

Then  Joan  leaped  to  her  feet  as  if  she  had  been 
struck  in  the  face.  She  kicked  the  nets  from  her 
and  strode  to  the  open  door  in  a  flaming  passion. 

"Aw,  then!  "  she  cried,  "not  your  mother,  thank 
God!  Not  your  mother,  or  you'd  be  in  the  boats 
making  your  awn  living.  You!  you  cruel,  cow 
ardly,  lazy,  lounging,  bad  lot!  Living  on  my  poor 
little  girl,  you  be!  You  vampire!  Living  on  her 
body  and  soul." 

"Madam,  where  is  Mr.  Penelles?" 

"Aw,  to  be  sure.  Well  you  knew  he  wasn'  here, 
or  you  would  never  have  put  foot  this  road.  And 
no  madam  I  be,  but  honest  Joan  Penelles.  Go! 
The  Fender  men  are  near  by.  Go ! — and  the  Trefy 


198  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

men,  and  Jack  Penhelick,  and  Reuben  Trewillow. 
Go! — they  are  close  by,  I  tell  you.  Go! — if  I 
call  they'll  come.  Go! — or  they  will  know  the 
reason  why!" 

Then,  still  smiling  and  knocking  the  end  of  his 
cigar  against  the  end  of  his  cane,  Roland  leisurely 
took' the  road  to  the  cliff.  But  Joan,  in  her  passion 
ate  sense  of  intolerable  wrong,  flung  up  her  arms  to 
ward  heaven,  and  with  tears  and  sobs  her  cry  went 
up: 

"  O  my  God!  Look  down  and  see  what  sin  this 
Roland  Tresham  be  doing!" 


CHAPTER  XI. 

FATHERLY     AND     MOTHERLY. 

' '  In  youth  change  appears  to  be  certain  gain  ; 
Age  knows  that  it  is  generally  certain  loss." 

"  The  worst  wounds  are  those  our  own  hands  inflict." 
"  Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children." 

"  A  mother  is  a  mother  still, 
The  holiest  thing  alive." 

— COLERIDGE. 

TEN  days  of  the  methodical  serenity  of  Burrell 
Court  wearied  Roland,  and  with  money  in  his 
pocket  the  thought  of  London  was  again  a  tempta 
tion.  He  was  quickly  satisfied  with  green  gardens 
and  sea-breezes ;  the  pavements  of  Piccadilly  and  Re 
gent  Street  were  more  attractive.  And  for  Roland, 
the  last  wish  or  the  last  plan  held  the  quality  of 
fascination.  When  he  turned  his  back  upon  Bur 
rell  Court,  Elizabeth  faded  from  his  thoughts  and 
affections;  it  was  Denasia  who  then  drew  him 
through  every  side  of  his  vivid  imagination  and 
reckless  desires. 

He  had  written  to  her  as  soon  as  Elizabeth  prom 
ised  him  the  money  he  needed;  for  he  believed  when 
Denasia  was  free  from  care  she  would  speedily 
recover  her  health  and  strength.  He  pleased  him 
self  all  the  way  home  with  the  anticipation  of  his 

199 


200  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

wife's  smiles  and  welcome,  and  he  was  a  little 
frightened  not  to  see  her  face  at  the  window  the 
moment  his  cab  arrived.  He  expected  her  to  be 
watching;  he  was  sure,  if  she  were  able,  she  would 
not  have  disappointed  him.  He  had  a  latch-key  in 
his  pocket,  and  he  opened  the  door  and  went  rapidly 
to  the  room  they  occupied.  It  was  empty ;  it  was 
cleaned  and  renovated  and  evidently  waiting  for 
a  new  tenant. 

Full  of  trouble  and  amazement,  he  was  going  to 
seek  his  landlady,  when  she  appeared.  She  was  as 
severely  polite  as  people  who  have  got  the  last 
penny  they  hope  to  get  out  of  one  can  be.  Mrs. 
Tresham  had  gone  to  the  sea-side.  She  had  le£t 
five  days  ago — gone  to  Broadstairs.  The  address 
was  in  the  letter  which  she  gave  him.  Greatly  to 
Roland's  relief  she  said  nothing  about  money,  and 
he  certainly  had  no  wish  to  introduce  the  subject. 

But  he  was  amazed  beyond  measure.  Where  had 
Denasia  got  money?  How  had  she  got  it?  Why 
had  she  said  nothing  to  him?  He  had  had  a  letter 
two  days  before,  and  he  took  it  out  of  his  pocket  and 
re-read  it.  There  was  no  allusion  to  the  change, 
but  he  saw  that  the  postmark  showed  it  to  have 
been  mailed  on  the  way  to  the  Chatham  and  Dover 
Railway.  However,  he  was  not  anxious  enough  to 
pursue  his  journey  that  night.  He  went  to  a  hotel, 
had  a  good  dinner,  slept  off  his  fatigue,  and  started 
for  Broadstairs  at  a  comfortable  hour  in  the  morning. 

Nothing  like  jealousy  troubled  him.  He  had  no 
more  fear  of  Denasia's  honour  and  loyalty  than  he 
had  of  the  sun  rising;  and  with  a  hundred  pounds 


FATHERLY  AND   MOTHERLY.  201 

in  his  pocket  curiosity  was  a  feeble  feeling.  "  Some 
way  all  is  right,  and  when  a  thing  is  right  there  is 
no  need  to  worry  about  it."  This  was  his  ultimate 
reflection,  and  he  slept  comfortably  upon  it. 

Broadstairs  was  a  new  place,  and  to  Roland  novelty 
of  any  kind  had  a  charm.  A  fine  morning,  a  good 
cigar,  a  change  of  scene,  and  Denasia  at  the  end, 
what  more  was  necessary  to  a  pleasant  trip  ?  His 
first  disillusion  was  the  house  to  which  he  was 
directed.  It  was  but  a  cottage,  and  in  some  pecu 
liar  way  Roland  had  persuaded  himself  that  Denasia 
had  not  only  got  money,  but  also  a  large  sum.  The 
cottage  in  which  he  found  her  did  not  confirm  his 
anticipations.  And  in  the  small  parlour  Denasia 
was  taking  a  dancing-lesson.  An  elderly  lady  was 
playing  the  violin  and  directing  her  steps.  Of 
course  the  lesson  ceased  at  Roland's  entrance;  there 
was  so  much  else  to  be  talked  over. 

"  Why  did  you  come  to  this  out-of-the-way  place  ?" 
asked  Roland  with  a  slight  tone  of  disapprobation. 

"  Because  both  my  singing  and  dancing  teachers 
were  here  for  the  summer  months,  and  I  longed  for 
the  salt  air.  I  felt  that  it  was  the  only  medicine 
that  would  restore  me.  You  see  I  am  nearly  well 
already." 

"  But  the  money,  Denasia  ?  And  do  you  know 
that  old  harpy  in  London  never  named  money.  Is 
she  paid?" 

"  Why  do  you  say  harpy  ?  She  only  wanted  what 
we  really  owed  her.  And  she  was  good  and  patient 
when  I  was  ill.  Yes,  I  paid  her  nine  pounds." 

"  I  have  one  hundred  pounds,  Denasia." 


202  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

"  You  wrote  and  told  me  so. " 

"Elizabeth  gave  it  to  me;  and  I  must  say  she 
gave  it  very  kindly  and  pleasantly." 

"Of  course  Elizabeth  gave  you  it.  Why  not?  Is 
there  any  merit  in  her  doing  a  kindness  to  her  own 
brother  pleasantly?  How  else  should  she  do  it?" 

"It  was  given  as  much  for  you  as  for  me." 

"Decidedly  not.  If  Elizabeth  has  the  most  ordi 
nary  amount  of  sense,  she  knows  well  I  would  not 
touch  a  farthing  of  her  money;  no,  I  would  not  if 
I  was  dying  of  hunger." 

"That  is  absurd,  Denasia. " 

"Call  it  what  you  will.  I  hate  Elizabeth  and 
Elizabeth  hates  me,  and  I  will  not  touch  her  money 
or  anything  that  is  bought  with  it.  For  you  it  is 
different.  Elizabeth  loves  you.  She  is  rich,  and  if 
she  desires  to  give  you  money  I  see  no  reason  why 
you  should  refuse  it — that  is,  if  you  see  none." 

"  And  pray  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"  Have  I  suffered  in  your  absence  ?  You  left  me 
sick,  nervous,  without  a  shilling.  I  have  made  for 
myself  a  good  engagement  and  received  fifty  pounds 
in  advance." 

"A  good  engagement!     Where?     With  whom?" 

"I  am  learning  to  sing  a  part  in  'Pinafore.'  I 
am  engaged  at  the  Olympic. " 

"  Denasia!" 

She  flushed  proudly  at  his  amazement,  and  when  he 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  she  permitted 
him  to  see  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  happy  tears. 

"Yes,"  she  resumed  in  softer  tones,  "I  went  to 
see  Colonel  Moss,  and  he  was  delighted  with  my 


FATHERLY  AND   MOTHERLY.  203 

voice.  Mr.  Harrison  says  I  karn  with  extraordinary 
rapidity  and  have  quite  wonderful  dramatic  talent, 
and  madane  has  almost  as  much  praise  for  my 
dancing.  I  had  to  pay  some  bills  out  of  the  fifty 
pounds;  but  I  am  sure  I  can  live  upon  the  balance 
and  pay  for  my  lessons  until  September.  As  soon 
as  I  am  strong  enough  to  look  after  my  costumes, 
my  manager  will  advance  money  for  them." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  are  to  have  fifty  pounds 
a  week  ?" 

"  I  am  to  have  thirty  pounds  a  week.  That  is 
very  good  pay,  indeed,  for  a  novice." 

"For  six  nights  and  a  matinee?  You  ought  to 
have  had  far  more ;  it  is  not  five  pounds  a  perform 
ance.  You  ought  to  have  ten  pounds.  I  must  see 
about  this  arrangement.  Moss  has  taken  advantage 
of  you." 

"  I  have  given  my  promise,  Roland,  and  I  intend 
to  keep  it.  You  must  not  interfere  in  this  matter." 

"Oh,  but  I  must!" 

"It  will  be  useless.  I  shall  stand  to  my  own 
arrangement." 

"  It  is  a  very  poor  one." 

"  It  is  better  than  any  you  ever  made  for  me." 

"Of  course!  I  had  all  the  preparatory  work  to  do, 
getting  you  known — getting  a  hearing  for  you,  in 
fact.  Now  the  harvest  is  ripe,  it  is  easy  enough 
to  get  offers.  You  had  better  let  me  have  a  talk 
with  Moss." 

"  I  have  signed  all  the  necessary  papers.  I  have 
accepted  fifty  pounds  in  advance.  I  will  not — no — 
I  will  not  break  a  letter  of  my  promise  for  anyone." 


204  A    SINGER   FROM   THE   SEA. 

"  Then  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  affair. 
It  is  a  swindle  on  Moss'  part." 

"  No,  it  is  not.  He  made  me  a  fair  offer ;  I,  of  my 
own  free  will  and  judgment,  accepted  it." 

"Thirty  pounds  a  week!  What  is  that  for  a  first- 
class  part?" 

"  It  is  a  good  salary.  I  can  pay  my  expenses 
and  buy  my  wardrobe  out  of  it.  You  have  Eliza 
beth's  money.  When  it  is  done  she  will  probably 
give  you  more.  She  ought  to,  as  you  preferred 
trusting  to  her."  But  though  the  words  were  laugh 
ingly  said,  they  sprang  from  a  root  of  bitterness. 

In  fact,  Roland  quickly  discovered  that  those  ten 
days  he  had  so  idly  passed  at  Burrell  Court  with 
his  sister  had  been  ten  days  of  amazing  growth  in 
every  direction  to  Denasia.  She  had  wept  when  Ro 
land  so  suddenly  left  her;  wept  at  his  want  of  faith 
in  her,  at  his  want  of  care  for  her,  at  his  indiffer 
ence  to  her  weakness  and  poverty.  But  to  sit  still 
and  cry  was  not  the  way  of  her  class.  She  had  been 
accustomed  to  reflect,  when  trouble  came,  whether 
it  could  be  helped  or  could  not  be  helped.  If  the 
former,  then  it  was  "up  and  about  it;"  if  the  latter, 
tears  were  useless,  and  to  make  the  best  of  the  irre 
vocable  was  the  way  of  wisdom. 

In  an  hour  she  had  conquered  the  physical  weak 
ness  which  spoke  by  weeping.  A  suspicion  of 
cruelty  gave  her  the  salutary  stimulus  of  a  lash; 
she  sat  upright  and  began  to  plan.  The  next  day 
she  went  out,  sold  a  bracelet,  hired  a  cab,  and  went 
from  one  manager  to  another  until  she  succeeded. 
Brought  face  to  face  with  the  question  of  work  and 


FATHERLY  AND   MOTHERLY.  205 

wage,  all  the  shrewd  calculating  instincts  of  a  race 
of  women  accustomed  to  chaffer  and  bargain  awoke 
within  her.  She  sold  her  wares  to  good  advantage, 
and  she  knew  she  had  done  so.  Then  a  long-nascent 
distrust  of  Roland's  business  tact  and  ability  sprang 
suddenly  to  vigorous  life.  She  realised  in  a  mo 
ment  all  the  financial  mistakes  of  the  past  winter. 
She  resolved  not  to  have  them  repeated. 

The  sea  air  soon  restored  all  her  vigour  and  her 
beauty.  She  gave  herself  to  study  and  to  practice 
with  an  industry  often  irritating  to  Roland.  It 
reproached  his  own  idleness  and  it  deprived  him 
of  her  company.  He  did  indeed  rehearse  his  char 
acters,  and  in  a  stealthy  way  he  endeavoured  to  find 
a  better  engagement  for  Denasia.  He  was  sure 
that  if  he  were  successful  there  would  be  no  diffi 
culty  in  inducing,  or  if  necessary  compelling,  his 
wife  to  accept  it.  He  could  as  easily  have  made 
Queen  Victoria  accept  it.  For  with  the  inherited 
shrewdness  of  her  class  she  had  also  their  integrity. 
She  would  have  kept  any  engagement  she  made  even 
if  it  had  ruined  her. 

The  winter  was  a  profitable  one,  though  not  as 
happy  as  Denasia  had  hoped  it  would  be.  They 
had  no  debts  and  were  able  to  indulge  in  many 
luxuries,  and  yet  Roland  was  irritable,  gloomy,  and 
full  of  unpleasant  reminiscences  and  comparisons. 
He  thought  it  outrageous  for  Moss  to  refuse  the 
payment  of  his  wife's  salary  to  him.  And  Denasia 
had  a  disagreeable  habit  of  leaving  a  large  portion 
of  her  income  with  the  treasurer  of  the  company, 
and  then  sending  her  costumer  and  other  creditors 


206  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

to  the  theatre  for  payment.  Indeed,  she  was  develop 
ing  an  independence  in  money  matters  that  was  ex 
tremely  annoying  to  Roland.  He  felt  that  his 
applications  to  Elizabeth  were  perpetual  offences  to 
Denasia,  and  if  he  had  been  a  thoughtful  man  he 
would  have  understood  that  this  separation  of  their 
interests  in  financial  matters  was  the  precursor  of  a 
much  wider  and  more  dangerous  one. 

Roland  had  other  unpleasant  experiences  to  en 
counter.  It  seemed  incredible  that  the  handsome, 
witty,  fascinating  Mr.  Tresham  could  possibly  be 
a  bore,  and  yet  the  authorities  in  various  green 
rooms  either  said  so  in  plain  English  or  made  him 
aware  of  the  fact  through  every  other  sense  but 
hearing.  He  felt  himself  to  be  politely  or  sarcas 
tically  quizzed.  Stars  ignored  him;  meaner  lights 
gave  him  a  bare  tolerance.  A  few  inquired  if  his 
grand  relatives  had  yet  forgiven  him.  One  or  two 
affected  to  have  heard  he  had  an  offer  from  Henry 
Irving,  or  some  other  histrionic  luminary;  in  fact, 
he  gradually  was  made  to  understand  that  Roland 
Tresham  was  by  no  means  a  name  to  conjure  with. 

He  did  not  tell  Denasia  of  these  humiliations, 
and  she  believed  that  his  chagrin  and  ill-temper 
arose  from  his  continual  disappointments.  He  could 
get  no  chance  worthy  of  his  efforts  for  a  trial  of 
his  new  Shakespearian  interpretations.  He  felt  sure 
there  was  a  coalition  against  him.  "Let  a  man 
have  a  little  more  beauty  or  talent  than  the  crowd, 
and  the  crowd  are  determined  to  ruin  him,  naturally," 
he  said,  and  he  believed  his  own  dictum  thoroughly. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  season,  however,  he  did  ob- 


FATHERLY  AND   MOTHERLY.  207 

tain  a  hearing  under  what  were  undoubtedly  favour 
able  circumstances ;  and  then  the  press  was  his  enemy. 
And  he  knew  positively  that  the  adverse  criticisms 
were  the  results  of  venality,  or  ignorance,  or  want 
of  taste,  or  of  that  brutal  conservatism  which  makes 
Englishmen  suspicious  of  everything  not  indorsed 
by  centuries  of  use  and  wont. 

It  may  be  easily  seen  how  these  personal  irrita 
tions  made  an  unhappy  atmosphere  in  which  to 
dwell.  And  Roland  had  another  disappointment 
also  which  he  hardly  liked  to  admit  to  himself — 
Denasia  was  changing  so  rapidly.  The  society  into 
which  he  himself  had  brought  her  forced  the  simple, 
trustful,  ignorant  girl  into  observations  and  calcu 
lations  which  lifted  her  unconsciously  to  a  level, 
perhaps  in  some  respects  to  a  plane  above  her  hus 
band.  She  was  naturally  clever,  and  she  learned 
how  to  dress  herself,  how  to  take  care  of  herself, 
how  to  look  out  for  her  own  interests.  Roland 
had  intended  to  dictate  to  her,  and  she  began  to 
smile  at  his  dictations  and  to  take  her  own  way, 
which  she  charmingly  declared  was  the  only  reason 
able  way  for  her  to  take. 

During  this  interval  Roland  wrote  often  to  Eliza 
beth.  He  wanted  some  one  to  complain  to,  and 
Elizabeth  was  the  only  person  he  knew  who  was 
willing  to  listen  to  his  complaints.  She  perceived 
very  early  the  little  rift  between  husband  and  wife 
which  might  be  bridged  by  love  or  might  become 
an  abyss  in  which  love  would  be  for  ever  lost.  It 
must,  however,  be  noted  to  her  credit  that  she 
avoided  any  word  likely  to  widen  it.  She  did  not 


2o8  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

like  Denasia,  but  she  had  a  controlling  sense  of 
honour.  She  had  also  a  lofty  ideal  of  the  sacred- 
ness  of  the  marriage  tie.  To  have  made  trouble 
between  a  man  and  his  wife  would,  in  Elizabeth's 
opinion,  have  been  as  wicked  a  thing  as  to  break 
into  a  church  vestry  and  steal  the  sacramental 
silver.  But  she  did  sympathize  with  her  brother, 
and  advise  him,  and  send  him  money.  And  natu 
rally  Denasia,  who  thought  badly  of  Elizabeth,  re 
sented  her  interference  in  her  life  at  all;  so  that 
there  was  usually  a  coolness  between  Roland  and 
Denasia  after  the  arrival  of  a  letter  from  Burrell 
Court. 

In  truth,  any  letter  from  St.  Penfer  at  this  period 
of  Denasia's  life  hurt  her.  She  longed  for  her  own 
people.  She  felt  heart-sick  for  a  word  from  them. 
In  some  moment  of  confidence  or  ill-temper,  Roland 
had  given  his  wife  his  own  version  of  the  visit  to 
his  mother-in-law.  And  whatever  else  he  remem 
bered  or  forgot,  he  was  clear  and  positive  about 
Joan's  message  to  her  daughter.  She  had  broken 
her  good  father's  life  in  two  and  her  mother  was 
sorry  she  had  ever  given  her  suck.  Denasia  knew 
her  mother's  passionate  nature,  and  she  could  under 
stand  that  some  powerful  aggravation  had  made  her 
speak  so  strongly,  but  the  words,  after  all  allowances, 
were  terrible  words.  They  haunted  her  in  the 
midst  of  her  professional  excitements,  and  still  more 
in  the  solitude  of  her  frequently  restless  nights. 

And  if  Joan  had  felt  this  a  year  ago,  Denasia 
knew  that  she  now  felt  much  more  bitterly;  for  in 
one  of  her  letters  to  Roland  Elizabeth  had  written 


FATHERLY  AND   MOTHERLY,  209 

freely  of  the  passionate  anger  of  John  Penelles 
when  he  learned  that  his  daughter  had  become  a 
public  dancer.  Indeed,  Elizabeth  affected  to  think 
it  very  cruel  of  Denasia  to  send  to  her  old  ignorant 
parents  the  illustrated  paper  which  contained  her 
picture  in  the  dance  act.  She  thought  Denasia's 
vanity  had  overstepped  all  bounds  and  become 
positive  cruelty,  etc.,  etc.  And  Denasia,  in  a  pas 
sion  which  matched  any  outbreak  of  her  father's, 
vowed  not  only  that  she  had  never  sent  such  a  paper 
to  St.  Penfer,  but  that  Elizabeth  herself  must  have 
been  the  perpetrator  of  the  cruelty,  unless — and  she 
then  gave  Roland  a  glance  which  made  him  wonder 
where  his  willing  and  obedient  Denasia  of  former 
days  had  gone. 

In  all  essential  points  this  story  was  a  false  one. 
It  was  indeed  true  that  some  person  had  sent  to 
the  Penelles  cottage  a  London  paper,  in  which 
there  was  a  large  picture  of  Denasia  and  the  admiral 
dancing  the  famous  hornpipe.  But  the  manner  of 
its  reception  was  matter  of  speculation  only,  and 
the  speculative  had  founded  their  tale  upon  the 
known  hastiness  of  John  and  Joan's  tempers,  without 
taking  into  consideration  the  presence  of  unknown 
influences. 

As  it  happened,  the  pictured  girl  was  received  in 
the  St.  Penfer  post-office  during  a  storm.  John  had 
been  called  in  the  grey  dawn  to  the  life-boat,  and 
Joan,  in  spite  of  wind  and  rain,  went  down  to  the 
beach  with  him.  With  a  prayer  in  her  heart,  she 
saw  him  buckle  on  his  buoyant  armour  and  set 
his  pale  blue  oar  like  lance  athwart  his  rest,  and 
14 


MO  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

then  make  straight  out  into  the  breakers  that  dashed 
and  surged  around.  Joan  saw  the  boat's  swift  for 
ward  leaping,  its  downward  plunge  into  the  trough 
of  the  sea,  its  perilous  uplifting,  its  perpendicular 
rearing,  its  dread  descent.  And  John  felt  its  hu 
man  reel  and  shudder,  its  desperate  striving  and 
leaping  and  plunging,  and  its  sad  submission  when 
the  waters  half  filled  it  and  the  quivering  men  clung 
for  very  life  under  the  deluge  pouring  over  them. 

So  for  three  hours  John  was  face  to  face  with 
awful  death,  and  Joan  on  her  knees  praying  for  his 
safety,  and  John  had  but  just  got  back  to  his  home, 
and  the  cry  of  thanksgiving  for  her  old  dear's  return 
was  yet  on  Joan's  lips,  when  the  postman  brought 
the  fateful  newspaper.  Fortunately  they  did  not 
open  it  at  once.  Joan  laid  it  carefully  aside  and 
brought  on  their  belated  breakfast.  And  as  they 
ate  it  they  talked  of  the  lives  that  were  lost  and 
saved.  Then  John  smoked  his  pipe,  and  Joan 
tidied  up  her  house  and  sat  down  beside  him  with 
her  knitting  in  her  hands.  Both  their  hearts  were 
solemn  and  tender.  John  felt  as  if  his  life  was  a 
new  gift  to  him;  Joan,  as  if  her  husband's  love  had 
some  miraculous  sweetness  never  known  before. 
They  spoke  seldom  and  softly,  finding  in  their  re 
sponsive  silence  a  language  beyond  words. 

It  was,  then,  in  this  gentle  mood  that  John  reached 
to  the  shelf  above  his  head  and  took  down  the 
paper.  He  opened  it,  and  Denas  in  her  pretty  danc 
ing  dress,  with  her  bare  arms  lifted  above  her  head, 
looked  her  father  full  in  the  face.  She  was  laugh 
ing;  she  was  the  incarnation  of  merriment  and  of 


FATHERLY  AND   MOTHERLY.  211 

consciously  graceful,  captivating  vivacity.  The  mis 
erable  father  was,  however,  fascinated;  he  gazed 
and  gazed  until  his  eyes  overflowed,  and  his  hands 
trembled,  and  the  paper  fell  with  a  rustle  to  the 
floor. 

Joan  lifted  it  and  looked  at  her  husband.  His 
eyes  were  shut,  he  was  sobbing  inwardly  as  punished 
children  sob  in  sleep.  She  spoke  to  him,  and  he 
opened  his  eyes  and  pointed  to  the  paper.  Then 
Joan  met  the  same  well-beloved  face.  The  mother's 
cheeks  burned  red  and  redder,  her  eyes  flashed,  she 
straightened  out  every  crease,  as  if  the  pictured 
satin  and  lace  had  been  real ;  and  then  turning  to 
the  printed  page,  she  read  aloud  every  word  of  adu 
lation. 

They  had  talked  together  of  the  men  and  women 
drowned  within  sight  of  land  that  morning,  but  here 
was  their  only  child  dancing  in  sight  of  eternal 
death,  and  they  could  not  say  a  word  to  each  other 
about  her.  For  it  must  be  remembered  that  these 
simple,  God-fearing  fisher-folk  had  been  strictly  and 
straitly  reared  in  a  creed  which  regarded  dancing 
as  one  of  the  deadly  sins.  They  honestly  believed 
that  there  was  but  a  step  between  their  darling  and 
eternal  death,  and  if  she  should  take  that  step  while 
dancing!  To  have  known  that  she  was  on  the  ship 
which  had  just  gone  to  pieces  on  the  rocks  would 
not  have  made  them  so  heart-sick.  Their  very  souls 
shivered  as  they  thought  of  her.  As  for  John,  he 
could  find  only  those  two  words  that  spring  in 
stinctively  to  every  soul  in  trouble,  "O  God!" 

But  he  motioned  Joan  to  take  the  paper  away, 


212  A    SItfGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

and  Joan  took  it  into  the  room  which  was  still 
called  "  Denas'  room."  She  kissed  the  pictured 
face,  the  hair  and  eyes  and  mouth,  the  lifted  arms, 
the  slender  throat.  She  could  not  bear  to  crush 
the  paper  together;  she  opened  a  drawer  and  laid 
it  as  gently  within  as  if  she  had  been  putting  her 
baby  in  its  coffin.  At  this  hour  there  was  no 
anger  In  her  heart;  there  was  even  a  little  motherly 
pride  in  her  child's  beauty  and  grace  and  cleverness, 
At  this  extremity  of  ill-doing  she  did  not  altogether 
blame  Denas.  She  was  certain  that  before  Denas 
danced,  some  one  had  somehow  persuaded  the  girl 
that  it  was  not  wicked  to  dance.  "  Denas  do  have 
principles, "  she  said  stiffly,  "and  the  man  do  not 
live  who  can  make  her  do  wickedly  if  she  do  think 
it  be  wicked." 

She  looked  with  a  sad  affection  around  the  little 
room.  How  lonely  it  was!  Yes,  it  is  the  living 
who  desert  us  that  make  lonely  rooms,  and  not  the 
dead.  We  know  the  dead  will  never  come  back, 
but  oh,  how  long  it  seems  to  wait  for  the  living! 
Month  after  month  to  keep  the  room  ready  for  the 
one  who  does  not  come  for  our  longing!  Month 
after  month  to  dress  the  bed  and  the  table,  and  lay 
out  the  books  they  loved,  and  the  little  treasures 
that  may  tell  they  were  unforgotten.  Joan  looked 
at  the  small  dressing-table  holding  the  shell  box, 
and  the  satin  pincushion,  and  the  alabaster  vase 
which  Denas  had  once  thought  beautiful  beyond 
price.  The  snowy  quilt  and  pillows,  the  carefully 
kept  floor  and  chairs,  the  clothing  washed  and  laid 
with  sprigs  of  lavender  in  the  tidy  drawers — oh, 


FATHERLY  AND    MOTHERLY.  213 

what  poetry  and  eloquence  of  untiring,  undespairing 
mother-love  were  in  these  things! 

But  this  patient,  loving  pity  for  their  erring  child 
was  an  attitude  not  easily  supposable,  and  Denasia 
did  not  suppose  it.  She  knew  from  Roland's  report 
that  her  appearance  as  a  public  singer  had  caused 
her  parents  great  sorrow  and  anger,  and  she  could 
only  imagine  a  still  deeper  anger  when  she  added 
the  sin  of  dancing  to  other  causes  of  offence.  But 
this  alienation  from  her  own  people  was  the  bitter 
drop  in  all  her  success  and  in  all  her  pleasure. 
For  now  that  the  illusions  and  selfishness  of  her 
bride-days  were  past,  the  faithful  home  affection  that 
never  wounded  and  never  deceived  resumed  its  im 
portance,  and  she  longed  for  her  father's  kiss  and 
her  mother's  breast. 

But  every  day  the  day's  work  is  to  face,  and 
Denasia's  days  were  fully  occupied  by  their  ob 
vious  duties.  So  week  after  week  and  month  after 
month  wore  on  in  alternations  of  hope  and  despair, 
happiness  and  vexation,  loving  and  quarrelling. 
Roland  certainly,  with  his  discontent  and  abiding 
sense  of  wrong,  threw  a  perpetual  shadow  over  life. 
She  did  not  even  dare  to  take,  with  any  show  of 
pleasure,  such  poor  satisfaction  as  her  passing  fame 
awarded.  A  man  may  be  jealous  of  the  praise  given 
to  his  own  wife,  and  there  were  times  when  Roland 
could  not  understand  Denasia's  success  and  his  own 
failure — bitter  hours  in  which  the  poor  girl  felt  that 
whether  she  pleased  her  audience  or  did  not  please 
them,  her  husband  was  sure  to  be  offended  and  angry. 

She  was  almost  glad  when,  at  the  close  of  the  sea- 


214  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

son,  the  company  disbanded  arid  she  was  at  liberty 
to  retire.  She  had  saved  money  and  was  resolved  to 
resume  her  studies.  There  was  at  least  nothing  in 
that  to  irritate  her  husband,  and  she  had  a  strong 
desire  to  improve  her  talent  in  every  direction. 
One  evening  Roland  entered  their  sitting-room  in 
that  hurry  of  hope  and  satisfaction  once  common 
enough  to  him,  but  of  which  he  had  shown  little 
during  the  past  winter.  Denasia  looked  up  from 
her  writing  with  a  smile,  to  meet  his  smile. 

"Denasia,"  he  cried  impulsively,  "what  do  you 
think?  We  are  going  to  America!  The  United 
States  is  the  place  for  me.  How  soon  can  you  be 
ready  ?" 

"But,  Roland?     What?" 

"It  is  true,  dear.     Whom  are  you  writing  to?" 

"  I  was  writing  to  Mr.  Harrison  and  to  madame. 
I  want  to  know  if  they  are  going  to  Broadstairs  this 
summer,  for  where  they  go  I  wish  to  go  also;  that 
is,  if  they  can  give  me  lessons." 

"  A  waste  of  money,  Denasia.  I  have  had  a  long 
talk  with  some  of  the  men  who  are  here  with  the 
American  company.  Splendid  fellows!  They  tell 
me  that  my  Shakespearian  ideas  will  set  New  York 
agog.  New  Yorkers  give  every  one  a  fair  hearing; 
at  least 'there's  nothing  beats  a  trial!'  That  is  a 
New  York  motto,  and  these  people  are  sure  I  would 
have  a  fair  trial  there.  And  the  country  is  so  big! 
So  big,  Denasia,  that  the  parts  you  know  will  last 
you  for  years.  There  is  not  a  bit  of  need  for  you 
to  study  new  songs  and  dances.  Sing  the  old  ones 
in  new  places.  Why,  you  may  travel  thousands 


FATHERLY  AND    MOTHERLY.  215 

of  miles  in  all  directions — big  cities  everywhere, 
little  ones  scattered  thick  as  blackberries  on  all 
the  railroad  routes,  and  railroad  routes  are  spread 
like  spider-webs  all  over  the  United  States!  That 
is  the  country  for  us!  New  York  first  of  all,  then 
Chicago,  St.  Louis,  Salt  Lake,  San  Francisco,  New 
Orleans — oh,  hundreds  of  cities!  And  money,  my 
dear!  Money  for  the  picking  up — that  is,  for  the 
singing  for." 

"  I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it,  Roland.  It  is  all 
talk.  I  am  going  to  Broadstairs  to  spend  the  sum 
mer  in  study." 

Roland  looked  a  moment  at  the  handsome,  resolute 
woman  who  had  resumed  her  writing,  and  he  won 
dered  how  this  Denasia  had  sprung  from  the  sweetly 
obedient  little  maid  he  had  once  manipulated  to 
his  will  with  a  look  or  a  word.  However,  he  could 
not  spare  her.  It  was  not  only  her  earnings  he 
required;  her  beauty  and  talent  gave  him  a  kind  of 
reflected  importance,  and  he  expected  great  things 
from  their  united  efforts  in  the  wonderful  new  world 
of  which  he  had  just  begun  to  think. 

So  he  set  himself  to  win  what  it  was  evident  he 
could  not  command,  and,  Denasia's  womanly  in 
stincts  being  stronger  than  her  artistic  instincts,  the 
husband  conquered.  The  sweet  words  and  kisses, 
the  frank  acknowledgment  of  his  faults,  the  declara 
tion  that  his  whole  future  hung  now  on  her  support 
and. interest  in  his  American  scheme,  moved  Denasia 
to  concede  where  she  felt  sure  she  ought  to  have 
refused.  But  when  a  man  finds  all  other  arguments 
fail  with  a  woman,  he  has  only  to  throw  himself 


216  A    SINGER    FROM    THE -SEA. 

upon  her  unselfishness.  To  prove  it,  she  will  ruin 
her  own  life.  Denasia  was  sure  she  was  going  a 
wrong  road,  but  then  Roland  asked  her  to  take  it 
for  his  sake,  and  to  show  her  love  for  him  she 
offered  up  her  own  hopes  and  desires,  and  offered 
them  with  smiles  and  kind  words  and  an  affected 
belief  that  the  change  might  be  as  good  for  her  repu 
tation  as  for  her  husband's.  She  did  indeed — as 
good  women  do  a  kindness — surrender  herself  en 
tirely,  and  pretended  that  the  surrender  was  her  own 
desire  and  her  husband's  complaisance  a  thing  he 
deserved  praise  for. 

However,  Roland's  enthusiasms  were  undoubtedly 
partly  contagious.  Even  Denasia,  who  had  so  often 
been  deceived,  was  partly  under  their  influence.  His 
words  had  caught  something  of  the  vastness  of  the 
land  of  his  hopes,  and  he  talked  so  ambitiously  and 
with  so  much  certainty  that  the  untravelled  woman 
caught  his  fever  once  more.  Then  she  also  suffered 
the  idea  of  America  to  fascinate  her,  and  she  per 
mitted  Roland  to  bring  his  new  friends  to  see  her, 
for  she  desired  to  be  entirely  possessed  by  the  idea 
which  was  now  to  be  the  ruling  motive  of  their  lives. 
It  was  decided  that  they  should  sail  about  the  mid 
dle  of  June.  "We  shall  then  have  time  to  become 
familiar  with  the  country,  and  we  need  not  be  in  a 
hurry  to  decide  about  engagements.  Hurry  is  such 
a  mistake,"  said  Roland  with  oracular  wisdom. 
And  Denasia  hoped  and  smiled,  and  then  turned 
away  to  hide  the  sudden  frown  and  sigh.  For  the 
heart  is  difficult  to  deceive,  and  Denasia's  heart 
warned  her  morning,  noon,  and  night.  But  to  what 


FATHERLY  AND    MOTHERLY.  2 17 

purpose  ?  Who  heeds  the  warning  from  their  higher 
selves  ?  Though  one  rose  from  the  dead  to  point 
out  a  fatal  mistake,  how  many  would  heed  the  mes 
senger?  For  when  love  says,  "This  is  the  way," 
wisdom,  fate,  death  itself  may  speak  in  vain. 

About  a  week  before  the  voyage,  Roland  said  one 
night:  "I  think  now,  Denasia,  that  we  have  every 
thing  packed,  I  shall  run  down  to  St.  Penfer  and 
see  my  sister.  I  may  never  come  back  from  America. 
Indeed,  I  do  not  think  I  shall  ever  want  to  come 
back,  and  I  really  ought  to  bid  Elizabeth  good-bye. 
She  will  doubtless  also  remember  me  in  money  mat 
ters,  and  in  a  strange  country  money  is  always  a 
good  friend.  Is  it  not,  dear?  What  do  you  think, 
Denasia  ?" 

"  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  of  St.  Penfer. 
My  heart  is  like  to  break  when  I  think  of  it.  I 
do  want  to  see  my  father  and  mother  so  much." 

"You  would  only  get  a  heart-break,  my  love. 
They  would  have  no  end  of  reproaches  for  you.  I 
shall  never  forget  your  mother.  Her  temper  was 
awful !" 

"You  must  have  said  something  awful  to  aggra 
vate  her,  Roland.  Mother  has  a  quick  temper,  but 
it  is  also  noble  and  generous.  I  do  want  to  see 
her.  I  must  see  her  once  more.  Let  us  go  together. " 

"To  St.  Penfer?  What  a  foolish  idea!  You 
would  only  give  yourself  a  wretched  memory  to  carry 
through  your  whole  life." 

"  Never  mind!     I  want  to  go  to  St.  Penfer." 

"How  can  you?  I  cannot  take  you  to  Burrell 
Court,  Denasia." 


2i8  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

"I  would  not  put  my  foot  inside  Burrell  Court." 

"  Then  if  I  went  there  and  you  went  to  your 
father's  house,  that  would  look  very  bad.  People 
would  say  all  kinds  of  wicked  things." 

"We  could  stop  together  at  the  Black  Lion. 
From  there  you  could  call  upon  Elizabeth.  From 
there  I  could  go  to  my  father  and  mother.  Even 
if  they  should  be  cruel  to  me,  I  want  to  see  them. 
I  want  to  see  them.  If  father  should  strike  me — 
well,  I  deserve  it.  I  will  kiss  his  hand  for  the 
blow!  That  is  how  I  feel,  Roland." 

"  I  shall  not  permit  my  wife  to  go  to  any  place 
where  she  expects  to  be  struck.  That  is  how  I  feel, 
Denasia. " 

"  You  are  ashamed  to  take  me  to  St.  Penfer  as 
your  wife.  And  yet  you  owe  me  this  reparation." 

"There  is  no  use  discussing  such  a  foolish  state 
ment.  I  do  not  think  I  owe  you  anything,  Denasia. 
I  have  given  you  my  name;  at  this  very  moment  I 
am  considering  your  welfare.  You  know  that  money 
is  necessary,  and  as  much  of  it  as  we  can  get;  but 
Elizabeth  will  give  me  nothing  if  you  are  tagging 
after  me." 

"  If  you  are  going  begging,  Roland,  that  alters 
the  question.  I  have  no  desire  to  'tag'  after  you 
on  that  errand.  As  for  Elizabeth,  I  hate  her." 

"Why  should  you  hate  her?  She  was  always  good 
to  you." 

''Good!  Do  not  name  the  woman.  If  you  want 
to  go  to  her,  go.  I  hope  you  will  carry  her  nothing 
but  sorrow  and  ill-luck.  I  do!  I  do!  I  hate  her  as 
the  sailor  hates  the  sunken  reef.  I  have  not  asked 


FATHERLY  AND   MOTHERLY.  219 

myself  why.  I  only  know  that  I  have  plenty  of 
reason." 

"  Do  not  be  so  excessive,  Denasia.  I  shall  leave 
for  the  West  to-night.  Would  you  like  me  to  see 
your  father?  Your  mother  I  decline  to  see." 

"  Leave  my  father  alone.  You  would  not  dare  to 
go  near  him.  If  you  do  I  will  never  speak  to  you 
again — never!" 

Roland  laughed  lightly  at  'her  passion  and  an 
swered  with  a  provoking  pleasantry:  "You  feel  too, 
too,  too  furiously,  Denasia.  It  is  not  ladylike. 
Your  emotions  will  wear  away  your  beauty." 

So  Roland  went  by  the  night  train  to  St.  Penfer, 
and  Denasia  took  the  train  after  his  for  the  same 
place.  She  \vas  determined  to  see  her  parents  once 
more,  and  all  their  habits  were  so  familiar  to  her 
that  she  had  no  fear  of  accomplishing  her  desire 
unknown  to  them.  She  timed  her  movements  so 
well  that  she  arrived  at  a  small  wayside  station 
near  St.  Penfer  about  dusk.  No  one  noticed  her, 
and  she  sped  swiftly  across  the  cliff-path,  until  it 
touched  the  path  leading  downward  to  her  own 
home. 

The  little  village  was  quite  still.  The  children 
had  gone  to  bed.  The  men  were  at  sea.  The  wo 
men  were  doing  their  last  daily  duties.  Denasia 
kept  well  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees  till  she  was 
opposite  her  home.  A  few  steps  across  the  shingle 
would  bring  her  to  the  door.  She  tried  to  remem 
ber  what  her  mother  might  be  doing  just  at  that 
hour,  and  while  thus  employed  Joan  came  to  the 
door,  stood  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  and  then 

* 


220  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

went  slowly  to  the  next  cottage.  She  had  her 
knitting  in  her  hand,  and  she  was  likely  going  to 
sit  an  hour  with  Ann  Trewillow.  When  Joan's  foot 
steps  no  longer  crunched  the  shingle  there  was  no 
sound  but  the  ocean  beating  on  the  shore  and  the 
wind  stirring  the  tree-tops,  and  when  Joan  and  Ann 
Trewillow  went  inside  Ann's  cottage  there  was  not 
another  human  creature  visible. 

Swiftly,  then,  Denasia  crossed  the  shingle.  She 
was  at  the  door  of  her  home.  It  stood  wide  open. 
She  entered  and  looked  around.  Nothing  was 
changed;  the  same  glow  of  red  fire  on  the  white 
hearth,  the  same  order  and  spotless  cleanliness,  the 
same  atmosphere  of  love  and  peace  and  of  life  holy 
and  simple.  She  was  not  hungry,  but  she  was  very 
thirsty  and  exceedingly  weary.  The  bucket  was 
full  of  freshly  drawn  water;  she  drank  and  then 
turned  her  face  to  her  own  room.  A  strong,  sweet 
curiosity  tempted  her  to  enter  it,  and  its  air  of 
visible  welcome  made  her  smile  and  weep.  It  was 
then  impossible  to  resist  the  desire  that  filled  her 
heart;  she  shut  the  door,  she  unclothed  herself,  and 
once  more  lay  down  in  her  home  to  sleep. 

"  It  is  hardly  likely  mother  comes  into  this  room 
more  than  once  a  week;  she  will  not,  at  any  rate, 
come  into  it  to-night.  I  shall  hear  her  return  and 
go  to  bed.  When  she  is  asleep  I  will  look  once 
more — once  more  on  her  dear  face.  Father  will  be 
home  in  the  dawning.  I  will  watch  for  his  coming. 
If  he  goes  to  bed  at  once  I  may  get  away  before 
any  person  sees  me.  If  he  sits  and  talks  to  mother, 
I  may  hear  something  that  will  give  me  cou.ra.ge  to 


FATHERLY  AND   MOTHERLY.  221 

say,  'I  am  here!  Forgiveme!'  I  must  trust  to  luck 
— no,  no,  to  God's  pity  for  me!" 

Thinking  thus,  she  lay  in  weary  abandon  on  her 
childhood's  bed.  The  monotonous  tick  of  the  old 
clock,  the  simmering  of  the  kettle  on  the  hob,  and 
the  deep  undertone  of  the  ocean  soothed  her  like 
a  familiar,  unforgotten  lullaby.  In  a  few  minutes 
she  had  fallen  into  a  deep,  dreamless  sleep. 

She  was  asleep  when  Joan  returned.  Joan  had 
gone  to  her  neighbour's  to  ask  a  question  about  the 
boats,  and  she  remained  there  for  more  than  an 
hour.  For  Ann  Trewillow  had  heard  of  Roland's 
arrival  in  the  village,  and  she  and  Joan  had  some 
opinions  to  express  on  the  subject.  So  that  when 
Joan  returned  to  her  own  cottage,  it  was  with  her 
heart  beating  to  memories  of  her  daughter. 

She  put  a  little  more  coal  on  her  fire  and  then 
went  for  a  drink  of  water.  The  tin  cup  was  not  in 
its  usual  place,  for  Denas  had  left  it  on  the  table. 
Joan  looked  at  the  cup  with  a  face  full  of  questions. 
Had  she  left  it  there?  She  never  before  had  done 
such  a  thing.  Who  then  had  been  in  her  house? 
Who  had  been  drinking  from  her  water-bucket? 
She  asked  the  questions  idly,  without  fear,  but  with 
a  certain  curiosity  as  to  her  unknown  visitor.  Then 
she  put  more  water  into  the  kettle  and  set  a  cup 
and  saucer  for  her  husband  in  case  he  wanted  a 
drink  of  hot  tea  when  he  came  in  from  the  fishing. 
All  the  time  she  was  thinking  of  Denas,  and  the 
girl  seemed  to  grow  into  the  air  beside  her;  she 
felt  that  if  she  whispered  "Denas"  she  might  hear 
the  beloved  voice  answer  "  Mother." 


222  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

Unknown  to  any  mortal,  Joan  had  made  a  kind  of 
idol  of  the  pictured  Denasia.  She  was  sorry  for 
her  weakness  in  this  matter,  but  she  was  not  able 
to  resist  the  temptation  of  very  frequently  opening 
the  drawer  in  which  it  lay,  of  looking  at  it,  and  of 
kissing  it.  Her  conversation,  her  thoughts,  her  fan 
cies  made  her  child-sick.  She  longed  for  a  sight 
of  her  darling's  face,  and  she  lifted  a  candle  and 
went  to  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  it  lay  hidden. 

There  was  always  an  unacknowledged  sense  of 
self-indulgence  in  this  act,  and  the  sense  made  her 
go  a  little  softly  about  it,  as  if  it  had  to  be  done 
secretly.  She  opened  the  door  slowly,  and  the  rush 
candle  showed  her  clothing  scattered  about  the 
room.  Her  heart  stood  still;  she  was  breathless; 
she  put  down  her  light  and  on  tiptoes  went  to  the 
bedside.  Denas  was  fast  asleep.  Her  long  hair 
lay  loose  upon  the  pillow,  her  face  was  pale  and 
faintly  smiling,  her  hands  open  and  at  rest  upon 
the  coverlet.  Her  deep,  slow  breathing  showed  her 
to  be  far  below  conscious  being,  and  Joan  knelt 
down  at  her  child's  side  and  filled  her  empty  eyes 
with  the  fair  picture  and  her  empty  heart  with  the 
hopes  it  inspired. 

Still  Denas  slept.  Then  Joan  went  into  the  outer 
room  and  sat  down  to  wait  for  John.  As  the  dawn 
came  up  the  East  she  pushed  aside  the  foliage  of 
her  flowering  plants  and  watched  the  beach  for 
John's  approach.  He  came  on  with  his  mates,  but 
they  scattered  to  their  cottages,  and  at  last  he  was 
alone.  Then  Joan  went  to  the  door  and  he  smiled 
when  he  saw  her  waiting.  She  made  an  imperative 


FATHERLY  AND    MOTHERLY.  223 

motion  of  silence  ;  she  took  his  string  of  fish  and  his 
water-bottle  out  of  his  hands  and  laid  them  very 
softly  down,  and  while  John  was  yet  lost  in  amaze 
ment  at  her  actions,  she  put  her  hand  in  his  and  led 
him  to  their  girl's  bedside.  Without  a  word  both 
stood  looking  at  her.  The  dawn  showed  every 
change  in  her  young  face,  and  the  pathos  of  hidden 
suffering  was  revealed  unconsciously  as  she  slept. 

There  is  some  wonderful  magnet  in  the  human 
eye;  no  sleeper  can  long  resist  its  influence.  As 
John  and  Joan  gazed  steadily  on  their  sleeping 
daughter  she  became  restless,  a  faint  flush  flew  to 
her  cheeks,  she  moved  her  hands.  Joan  slipped 
down  on  her  knees;  when  the  girl  opened  her  eyes 
she  was  ready  to  fold  her  in  her  arms.  John  stood 
upright,  and  it  was  his  wide-open,  longing  gaze 
which  brought  Denasia's  soul  back  to  her.  She 
gazed  back  silently  into  her  father's  face  for  a  mo 
ment  and  then  murmured: 

"Father!  forgive  me!     Oh,  mother!  mother!" 

They  forgave  her  with  tears  of  joy.  They  put 
her  fault  out  of  words  and  out  of  memory.  Con 
fession  and  forgiveness  was  an  inarticulate  service 
of  sorrow;  but  joy  and  welcome  were  eloquent  and 
full  of  tender  words.  For  once  John  locked  his 
door  and  did  not  call  his  neighbours  to  share  his 
gladness.  He  speedily  understood  the  shortness 
and  secrecy  of  her  visit.  After  all,  it  was  but  a 
farewell.  The  joy  was  dashed  with  tears.  The 
hope  quickly  faded  away. 

They  did  not  try  to  turn  her  from  the  way  she 
had  promised  to  go.  John  said  only,  "The  Lord  go 


224  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

with  you,  Denas, "  and  Joan  wept  at  the  thought 
of  the  land  so  far,  far  off.  But  they  divined  that 
their  child  had  her  own  sorrows,  that  the  lot  of 
woman  had  found  her  out,  that  she  had  come  to 
places  where  their  love  could  not  help  her.  Yet  the 
visit,  short  and  unsatisfactory  as  it  was,  made  a  great 
difference  in  Penelles"  cottage.  It  lifted  much  anx 
iety.  It  gave  the  father  and  mother  hopes  which 
they  took  to  God  to  perfect,  excuses  which  they 
pleaded  with  Him  to  accept.  Their  confidence  in 
their  child  was  strengthened;  they  could  pray  for 
her  now  with  a  more  sure  hope,  with  a  more  perfect 
faith. 

When  the  gloaming  came  on  thick  with  Cornish 
fog  Joan  kissed  her  darling  good-bye  with  passion 
ate  love  and  grief,  and  John  walked  with  his  "  little 
dear "  through  the  dripping  woods  to  the  wayside 
station,  and  lifted  her  into  the  carriage  with  a  great 
sob.  None  of  the  three  could  have  borne  such 
another  day,  but  oh,  how  glad  was  each  one  that  they 
had  dared,  and  enjoyed,  and  suffered  through  this 
one!  It  left  a  mark  on  each  soul  that  eternity 
would  not  efface. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

A     COWARDLY     LOVE. 

"  Howso'er  I  stray  or  range, 
Whate'er  I  do,  thou  dost  not  change; 
I  steadier  step  when  I  recall 
That  if  I  slip  thou  dost  not  fall." 

— CLOUGH. 

"Have  you  buried  your  happiness?  Well,  live  bravely  on. 
The  plant  does  not  die  though  all  its  flowers  be  broken  off.  It 
remembers  that  spring  will  surely  come  again." 

ROLAND  and  Denasia  were  in  Liverpool.  They 
were  full  of  hopes  and  of  prudent  plans. 
Roland  had  again  turned  over  a  new  leaf;  he  had 
renounced  his  past  self — the  faults  he  could  no 
longer  commit;  he  had  renounced  also  his  future 
faults.  If  he  was  a  little  extravagant  in  every  way 
for  a  day  or  two  before  making  so  eventful  a  voy 
age,  he  felt  that  Denasia  ought  not  to  complain. 
Alas!  it  is  not  the  renunciation  of  our  past  and 
future  selves  that  is  difficult;  it  is  the  steady  denial 
of  our  present  self  which  makes  the  disciple. 

They  spent  two  pleasant  days  in  Liverpool,  and 
on  the  eve  of  the  second  went  to  the  wonderful  piers 
and  saw  the  vast  companies  of  steamers  smudging 
the  blue  sky  with  their  lowering  clouds  of  black 
smoke.  Denasia  clung  closely  to  Roland;  she  felt 
that  she  was  going  into  a  new  world,  and  she  looked 
15  225 


226  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

with  a  questioning  love  into  his  eyes,  as  if  she 
could  read  her  fortune  in  them.  Roland  was  un 
usually  gay  and  hopeful.  He  reminded  his  wife 
that  the  mind  and  the  heart  could  not  be  changed 
by  place  or  time.  He  said  that  they  had  each  other 
to  begin  the  new  life  with,  and  he  was  very  sure 
they  would  soon  possess  their  share  of  every  other 
good  thing.  And  Denasia  fell  asleep  to  his  hope 
ful  predictions. 

In  the  morning  all  was  changed.  The  sun  was 
hidden  behind  banks  of  black  clouds,  the  streets 
were  plashy  and  muddy,  the  fierce  showers  smote 
the  windows  like  hail,  and  the  view  outside  was 
narrowed  to  a  procession  of  dripping  umbrellas.  •  It 
was  chilly,  too,  and  the  hotel  was  inexpressibly 
dreary  and  uncomfortable.  Greatly  to  Denasia's 
astonishment,  Roland  was  already  dressed.  All  his 
hopes  were  fled.  He  was  despondent  and  strangely 
woe-begone  and  indifferent.  He  said  he  had  had 
a  miserable  dream.  He  did  not  think  now  it  was 
right  to  go  to  America;  they  would  do  nothing 
there.  He  wished  they  were  at  Broadstairs;  he 
had  been  a  fool  to  mind  the  chatter  of  men  who 
were  probably  guying  him;  he  wished  Denas  had 
not  urged  the  plan;  if  she  had  only  stood  firm,  etc., 
etc.,  etc. 

Denasia  looked  at  him  with  amazement  and  with 
some  anger.  She  reminded  him  that  the  American 
idea  was  entirely  his  own.  She  wondered  what 
stuff  he  was  made  of,  to  be  so  dashed  and  quailed 
by  a  dream.  She  said  that  she  also  had  had  a  bad 
dream.  They  had  both  eaten  late ;  and  as  for  dreams, 


A    COWARDLY  LOVE.  *2? 

everyone  knew  they  went  by  contraries.  And  as 
limp  spirits  like  to  lean,  Roland  was  soon  glad 
to  lean  upon  Denasia's  bravery. 

The  few  last  weary  hours  in  England  went 
slowly  by.  Roland  and  Denasia  became  at  last  im 
patient  to  be  off;  any  place  must  certainly  be  bet 
ter  than  that  dreary  hotel  and  that  storm-beaten 
town;  the  cab  that  took  them  to  the  wharf  was  a 
relief,  and  the  great  steamer  a  palace  of  comfort. 
They  were  not  sick,  and  the  storm  was  soon  over. 
After  they  lost  sight  of  land  the  huge  waves  were 
flatted  upon  the  main;  the  weather  was  charming; 
the  company  made  a  fair  show  of  being  intensely 
happy,  and  day  after  day  went  past  in  the  monot 
onous  pretension.  Nothing  varied  the  life  until 
the  last  night  on  board,  when  there  was  to  be  a  con 
cert.  Denasia  had  been  asked  to  take  a  part  in  it, 
and  she  had  promised  to  sing  a  song. 

No  one  expected  much  from  her.  She  had  not 
been  either  officious  or  effusive  during  the  voyage, 
and  "  song  by  Mrs.  Tresham "  did  not  raise  any 
great  expectations.  As  it  was  nearly  the  last  item 
on  the  programme,  many  had  gone  away  before  Ro 
land  took  his  place  at  the  piano  and  struck  a  few 
startling  chords.  Then  Mrs.  Tresham  stepped  for 
ward  and  became  suddenly  Mademoiselle  Denasia. 

"  Here  beginneth  the  sea, 
That  ends  not  till  the  world  ends," 

thrilled  the  great  ship's  cabins  from  end  to  end. 
The  captain  was  within  the  door  before  the  first 
verse  was  finished.  There  was  a  crowd  at  the  doors; 


228  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

all  the  servants  in  the  lower  saloon  had  ceased 
work  to  listen.  Song  after  song  was  called  for. 
Perhaps,  indeed,  Denasia  had  a  sweeter  taste  of  her 
power  that  night  than  she  had  ever  felt  in  halls 
crowded  with  strangers  who  had  paid  a  shilling  to 
be  amused  by  her. 

The  listener  most  interested  in  this  performance 
said  the  least  at  the  time;  but  he  never  took  his 
eyes  off  the  singer,  and  his  private  decision  was, 
"That  young  woman  is  a  public  singer.  Her  voice 
has  not  been  trained  for  parlours;  she  has  been  used 
to  fling  its  volume  through  the  larger  space  of  halls 
or  theatres.  I  must  look  after  her."  He  ap 
proached  Roland  the  next  day  and  spoke  in  guarded 
terms  about  Mrs.  Tresham's  voice.  Roland  was 
easily  induced  to  talk,  and  the  result  was  an  offer 
which  was  really — if  they  had  known  it — the  open 
door  to  fortune.  But  it  is  the  fatality  of  the  un 
lucky  to  have  the  spirit  of  recklessness  in  their 
veins  and  the  weakness  of  prudence  in  their  hearts. 
Instead  of  letting  events  guide  them,  they  have  the 
presumption  to  think  they  can  guide  events.  Ro 
land  received  the  offer  coolly,  and  said  he  would 
consult  Mrs.  Tresham  on  the  matter.  But,  instead 
of  consulting  with  his  wife,  he  dictated  to  her  after 
the  fashion  of  the  suspicious: 

"  This  man  is  the  manager  of  a  company,  I  think. 
He  is  very  anxious  for  you  to  sign  an  agreement. 
His  offer  appears  to  be  good,  but  we  know  nothing 
of  affairs  in  New  York ;  it  may  be  a  very  poor  offer. 
If  you  have  made  such  an  impression  on  him,  you 
may  make  a  much  more  pronounced  one  on  others. 


A    COWARDLY  LOVE.  229 

We  will  not  think  of  this  proposal  at  all,  except  as 
the  straw  which  shows  us  what  a  great  wind  is  go 
ing  to  blow." 

Denasia  was  extremely  opposed  to  this  view.  She 
quoted  the  old  proverb  of  "  A  bird  in  the  hand  is 
worth  two  in  the  bush."  She  said  it  would  be  a 
sure  living  during  the  time  they  were  learning  the 
new  country  and  its  opportunities.  She  begged 
Roland  to  let  her  accept  the  offer.  When  he  re 
fused,  she  said  that  they  would  live  to  regret  the 
folly. 

The  manager  thought  so  also.  "  For  you  must 
understand,"  he  said  to  Roland,  "that  I  was  desir 
ous  to  engage  Mrs.  Tresham,  not  for  what  she  is — 
which  is  ordinary — but  for  the  possible  extra 
ordinary  I  see  in  her  if  she  could  have  the  proper 
advantages  and  influences."  With  the  words  he 
bowed  a  little  sarcastically  to  Mrs.  Tresham's  hus 
band,  and  afterward  spoke  no  more  to  him.  And 
then  there  came  to  the  foolish  young  man  that  sud 
den  chill  and  foreboding  which  a  despised  oppor 
tunity  leaves  behind  it. 

But  whether  we  do  wisely  or  foolishly,  the  busi 
ness  of  life  must  be  carried  on.  They  were  at  the 
point  of  landing,  and  for  some  days  the  strange  ex 
periences  of  their  new  life  occupied  every  moment 
and  every  feeling.  Then  came  a  long  spell  of  hot 
weather,  such  heat  as  Denasia  had  never  dreamed  of. 
Roland,  who  had  been  in  Southern  Europe,  could  en 
dure  it  better;  as  for  Denasia,  she  lay  prostrate  with 
but  one  idea  in  her  heart — the  cool  coverts  of  the 
Cornish  under-cliff  and  the  trinkling  springs 


23°  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

where  the  blue-bells  and  the  forget-me-nots  grew 
so  thickly. 

Yet  it  was  necessary  that  something  should  be 
done,  and  through  the  blazing  heat,  day  after  day, 
the  poor  girl  was  dragged  to  agencies  and  managers. 
But  she  found  no  one  to  make  her  such  an  offer  as 
the  one  so  foolishly  declined.  And  the  time  wore 
on,  and  the  money  in  their  purse  grew  less  and  less, 
and  a  kind  of  desperation  made  both  silent  and  irri 
table.  Finally  an  engagement  to  go  "on  the  road" 
was  secured,  and  Roland  affected  to  be  delighted 
with  it.  "We  shall  see  the  whole  country,"  he  said, 
"  and  we  can  keep  our  eyes  open  for  something 
better." 

Denasia  sighed.  Disappointment  and  a  sense  of 
wrong  and  grievous  mistake  filled  her  heart  and  sat 
upon  her  face.  She  submitted  as  to  an  irreparable 
injury,  and  left  New  York  without  the  least  enthu 
siasm.  "Good  fortune  knocked  at  our  door,"  she 
said,  "  and  we  had  not  intelligence  enough  to  let  him 
in."  This  was  all  the  reproach  she  gave  her  hus 
band,  and  as  she  said  "we"  he  accepted  her  generous 
self-accusation,  and  finally  convinced  himself  that 
it  was  entirely  Denasia's  fault  that  the  offer  was 
refused.  "But  then  I  do  not  blame  you,  Denasia," 
he  remarked  magnanimously;  "  you  had  every  right 
to  consider  yourself  worthy  of  a  larger  salary." 

They  left  New  York  in  September  and  went  slow 
ly  West.  Denasia  had  a  fine  physique,  but  it  was 
not  a  physique  trained  to  the  special  labour  it  had  to 
endure:  long  days  in  hot  railway  cars;  hurry  and 
worry  at  every  performance;  no  seclusion,  no  time 


A    COWARDLY  LOVE.  231 

for  study;  no  time  to  acknowledge  headache  or  wea 
riness;  a  score  of  little  humiliations  and  wrongs;  a 
constant  irritability  at  Roland's  apparent  indiffer 
ence  to  her  wretchedness  and  apparent  satisfaction 
with  the  company  and  life  into  which  he  was  thrown. 
The  men,  indeed,  all  seemed  satisfied.  They  had 
cigars  to  smoke,  and  they  told  stories  and  played 
cards,  and  so  beguiled  the  weary  hours  of  travel. 
The  women  were  headachy  and  tired ;  they  soon  threw 
aside  their  paper  novels  and  confidential  talks. 
Some  of  the  very  young  ones — pretty,  wilful,  inex 
perienced  girls,  not  yet  disillusioned,  not  yet  weary 
— added  flirtation  to  their  amusements.  It  pained 
Denasia  to  see  Roland  a  willing  aid  to  their  foolish 
pastime.  She  had  no  fear  that  her  husband  would 
wrong  her,  but  the  pretence  pained  and  humbled  her. 

It  was  a  wearisome  seven  months,  a  nightmare 
kind  of  life,  unrelieved  by  even  a  phantom  show  of 
success.  Men  in  the  Sierras,  out  on  the  great  West 
ern  plains,  knew  not  the  sea.  They  could  not  be 
roused  to  enthusiasm.  Fisher-folk  and  fisher-life 
were  outside  their  sympathies.  They  preferred  a 
comic  song — a  song  that  hit  a  famous  person,  or  a 
political  principle,  or  a  Western  foible.  Miners 
liked  to  hear  about  "  Leadville  Jim. "  It  touched 
their  sensibilities  when  the  "Three  Fishers  who 
Went  Sailing  out  into  the  West"  made  no  picture 
in  their  minds.  Without  being  a  failure,  Denasia 
could  not  be  said  to  be  a  success.  She  was  out  of 
her  place,  and  consequently  out  of  sympathy  with  all 
that  touched  her  life. 

Coming  back  eastward,  while  they  were  at  Denver 


232  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

Denasia  was  stricken  with  typhoid  fever.  It  was  the 
result  of  months  of  unsatisfactory, unhappy  labour, 
of  worry  and  fret  and  disappointment.  Nostalgia 
also  of  the  worst  kind  had  attacked  her.  She  shut 
her  eyes  against  the  great  mountains  and  endless 
plains.  She  wanted  the  sea.  She  wanted  her  home. 
Above  all,  she  wanted  to  hide  herself  in  her  mother's 
breast.  Roland  had  been  frequently  unkind  to  her 
lately.  She  had  been  utterly  unable  to  respond  to 
his  moods,  so  different  from  her  own,  and  she  had 
been  more  and  more  pained  by  the  silly  attentions 
he  bestowed  on  others. 

At  last  she  could  endure  it  no  longer.  She  had 
come  to  a  point  of  indifference.  "  Leave  me  and  let 
me  die."  This  was  all  she  said  when  Roland  was  at 
length  forced  to  believe  that  her  sickness  was  not 
temper,  or  disappointment,  or  jealousy.  The  com 
pany  were  compelled  to  leave  her;  Roland  saw  his 
favourites  on  the  train  and  then  he  returned  to 
nurse  his  sick  wife.  He  found  her  insensible,  and 
she  remained  so  for  many  days.  Doctors  were 
called,  and  Roland  conscientiously  remained  by  her 
side;  but  yet  it  was  all  alone  that  she  fought  her  bat 
tle  with  death.  No  one  went  with  her  into  the  dark 
valley  of  his  shadow.  She  was  deaf  to  all  human 
voices;  far  beyond  all  human  help  or  comfort. 
Through  the  long  nights  Roland  heard  her  moaning 
and  muttering,  but  it  was  the  voice  of  one  at  an  in 
conceivable  distance — of  one  at  the  very  shoal  of 
being. 

She  came  back  from  the  strife  weak  as  a  baby. 
Her  clear,  shrill  voice  was  a  whisper.  She  could 


A    COWARDLY   LOVE.  233 

not  lift  a  finger.  It  was  an  exhausting  effort  to 
open  her  eyes.  A  new-born  child  was  in  every  re 
spect  more  alive  and  more  self-helpful,  for  Denasia 
could  not  by  look  or  whisper  make  a  complaint  or 
a  request.  She  was  only  not  dead.  The  convales 
cence  from  such  a  sickness  was  necessarily  long  and 
tiresome.  The  fondest  heart,  the  most  unselfish 
nature  must  at  times  have  felt  the  strain  too  great 
to  be  borne.  Roland  changed  completely  under  it. 
His  love  for  Denasia  had  always  been  dependent 
upon  accessories  pleasant  and  profitable  to  him 
self,  as,  indeed,  his  love  for  any  human  being  would 
have  been.  While  Denasia's  beauty  and  talent  gave 
him  tclat  and  brought  him  money,  he  admired 
Denasia;  and  while  her  personality  made  sweet  his 
private  and  enviable  his  public  hours,  he  loved  her. 

But  a  wife  smitten  by  deathly  sickness  into 
breathing  clay — a  wife  who  could  give  him  no  de 
light  and  make  him  no  money — a  wife  who 
compelled  him  to  waste  his  days  in  darkness  and 
solitude  and  unpleasant  duties  and  his  money  in 
medicines  and  doctor's  fees — was  not  the  kind  of 
wife  he  had  given  his  heart  and  name  to.  It  was  evi 
dent  to  him  that  Denasia  had  failed.  "  She  has  failed 
in  everything  I  hoped  from  her,"  he  said  to  himself 
bitterly  one  day,  as  he  sat  beside  the  still,  death 
like  figure;  "and  there  must  be  an  end  of  this  some 
way,  Roland  Tresham." 

Financial  difficulties  were  quickly  upon  him,  and 
though  he  had  written  to  Elizabeth  a  most  pitiful 
description  of  his  position,  a  whole  month  had 
passed  and  there  was  no  letter  to  answer  his  appeal. 


234  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

He  had  momentary  impulses  to  run  away  from  a 
situation  so  painful  and  so  nearly  beyond  his  con 
trol.  But  it  was  fortunately  much  easier  for  Ro 
land  to  be  a  scoundrel  in  intent  than  in  reality. 
His  selfish  instincts  had  some  nobler  ones  to  com 
bat,  and  as  yet  the  nobler  ones  had  kept  the  man 
within  the  pale  of  human  affections.  There  had 
been  one  hour  when  the  temptation  was  very  nearly 
too  much  for  him;  and  that  very  hour  there  came 
to  him  two  hundred  dollars  from  Elizabeth.  It 
turned  him  back.  Ah,  how  many  a  time  two  hun 
dred  dollars  would  prevent  a  tragedy!  How  many 
a  time  financial  salvation  means  also  moral  salva 
tion! 

It  was  midsummer  before  Denasia  was  strong 
enough  to  return  to  New  York,  though  she  was  pas 
sionately  anxious  to  do  so.  "  We  are  so  far  out  of 
the  right  way,"  she  pleaded.  "So  far!  In  New 
York  we  are  nearer  home.  In  New  York  I  shall 
get  well." 

And  by  this  time  Roland  had  fully  realised  how 
unfit  he  was  for  the  vivid,  rapid  life  of  the  West. 
The  cultivated,  gentlemanly  drawl  of  his  speech  was 
of  itself  an  offence;  his  slow,  unruffled  movements 
and  attitudes,  his  "  ancient"  ways  of  thinking,  his 
conservatism  and  gentility  and  ultra-superficial 
refinement  were  the  very  qualities  not  valued  and 
not  needed  in  a  community  full  of  new  life,  ardent, 
impulsive,  rapid,  looking  forward,  and  determined 
not  to  look  backward. 

So  with  hopes  much  dashed  and  hearts  much 
dismayed  they  re-entered  New  York.  The  question 


A    COWARDLY  LOVE.  235 

of  the  future  was  a  serious  one.  They  were  nearly 
dollarless  again, and  even  Roland  felt  that  Elizabeth 
could  not  be  appealed  to  for  some  months  at  least. 
Denasia  was  facing  the  sorrowful  hopes  of  mother 
hood.  For  three  or  four  months  she  could  not  sing. 
They  restricted  themselves  to  a  small  back  room 
in  a  Second  Avenue  boarding-house,  and  Roland 
searched  the  agencies  and  the  papers  daily  for  some 
thing  suitable  to  his  peculiar  characteristics  and 
capabilities,  and  found  nothing.  There  was  a  great 
city  full  of  people,  but  not  one  of  them  wanting  the 
services  of  a  young  gentleman  like  Roland. 

As  for  Denasia,  she  was  still  very  weak.  July 
and  August  tried  her  severely.  Some  few  little 
garments  had  to  be  made,  and  this  pitiful  sewing 
was  all  she  could  manage.  She  did  not  lose  her 
courage,  however,  and  if  anything  touched  Roland's 
best  feelings  at  this  time,  it  was  her  unfailing  hope, 
her  smiling  welcome  no  matter  how  frequently  he 
brought  disappointment,  her  brave  assurances  that 
she  would  be  quite  well  before  the  winter  season, and 
then  all  would  be  put  right. 

In  the  last  days  of  August  the  baby  was  born. 
Denasia  recovered  rapidly,  but  the  little  lad  was  a 
sickly,  puny  child.  He  had  been  wasted  by  fever, 
and  fretted  by  anxious  cares  and  by  many  fears, 
even  before  they  were  his  birthright.  All  the  more 
he  appealed  to  his  mother's  love,  and  Denasia  began 
now  to  comprehend  something  of  the  sin  against 
mother-love  which  she  herself  had  committed. 

Perhaps  she  permitted  her  joy  in  her  child  to 
dominate  her  life  too  visibly;  at  any  rate  it  soon 


236  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

began  to  annoy  her  husband.  He  had  been  so  accus 
tomed  to  all  of  Denasia's  time  and  attention  that 
he  could  not  endure  to  be  put  off  until  baby  was 
asleep,  or  until  some  trifling  want  of  baby's  had 
been  attended  to.  He  fancied  that  her  attention 
was  divided;  that  even  when  she  appeared  to  be 
listening  to  his  complaints  or  his  intentions,  her 
heart  was  with  the  child  and  her  ears  listening  for 
its  crying.  The  transient  pleasure  he  had  experi 
enced  in  the  little  one's  birth  soon  passed  away, 
and  an  abiding  sense  of  petty  jealousy  and  wrong 
took  its  place. 

"You  are  for  ever  nursing  that  crying  little  creat 
ure,  Denasia, "  he  said  one  day  when  he  returned 
to  their  small,  warm  room  in  a  fever  of  annoyance 
at  some  unappreciative  manager.  "No  one  can  get 
your  attention  for  five  minutes.  You  hear  nothing 
I  say.  You  take  no  interest  in  anything  I  do.  And 
the  little  torment  is  for  ever  and  for  ever  crying." 

"  Baby  is  sick,  Roland.  And  who  is  there  to  care 
for  him  but  me  ?" 

"We  ought  to  be  doing  something.  Winter  is 
coming  on.  Companies  are  already  on  the  road ;  you 
will  find  it  hard  to  get  a  position  of  any  kind,  soon." 

"  I  will  go  out  to-morrow.  I  am  strong  enough 
now,  I  think," 

"I  can  find  nothing  suitable.  People  seem  to 
take  an  instant  dislike  to  me." 

"  That  is  nonsense!    You  were  al ways  a  favourite. " 

"I  have  had  to  sell  most  of  my  jewelry  in  order 
to  provide  for  your  sickness,  Denasia.  Of  course 
I  was  glad  to  do  it,  you  know  that,  but " 


A    COWARDLY  LOVE,  237 

"  But  it  is  my  duty  now,  Roland.  I  will  begin 
to-morrow.  " 

So  the  next  day  Denasia  went  to  the  agencies,  and 
Roland  promised  to  take  care  of  baby.  A  two  weeks 
of  exhausting  waiting  and  seeking,  of  delayed  hope 
and  destroyed  hope,  followed;  and  Denasia  was 
forced  to  admit  that  she  had  made  no  impression  on 
the  managerial  mind.  No  one  had  heard  of  her 
singing  and  dancing,  and  those  who  condescended  to 
listen  were  not  enthusiastic. 

"You  see,"  said  one  of  the  kindest  of  these 
caterers  for  the  public's  pleasure — "you  see,  New 
Yorkers  have  no  ideas  about  fisher  men  and  women. 
If  their  fish  is  fresh,  that  is  all  that  troubles  them. 
If  they  think  about  the  men  who  catch  it,  they  very 
likely  think  of  them  as  living  comfortably  in  flats 
with  all  the  modern  improvements.  A  good  topical 
song,  a  spirited  dance — they  are  the  things  that 
fetch." 

In  different  forms  this  was  the  general  verdict, 
and  every  day  she  found  it  harder  and  harder  to 
return  home  and  meet  Roland's  eager  face  as  she 
opened  the  door.  Pretty  soon  the  anxiety  became 
tinctured  with  complaint  and  unreasonable  ill-tem 
per,  and  with  all  the  domestic  miseries  which  ac 
company  resentful  poverty. 

The  poor  little  baby  in  Roland's  opinion  was  to 
blame  for  every  disappointment.  Its  arrival  had 
belated  Denasia's  application,  or  if  he  wanted  to  be 
particularly  irritating,  he  accused  Denasia  of  being 
in  such  a  hurry  to  return  to  her  child  that  she  did 
not  attend  to  her  most  necessary  duties.  So  instead 


238  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

of  being  a  loving  tie  between  them,  the  poor  wail 
ing  little  morsel  of  humanity  separated  very  love, 
while  Roland's  complaints  of  it  soon  really  produced 
in  his  heart  the  impatient  dislike  which  at  first  he 
only  pretended. 

He  grumbled  when  left  in  charge  of  the  cradle. 
As  soon  as  Denasia  was  out  of  sight  he  frequently 
deserted  his  duty,  and  the  disputes  that  followed 
hardened  his  heart  continually  against  the  cause  of 
them.  And  when  it  came  to  naming  the  child,  he 
averred  that  it  was  a  matter  of  no  importance  to 
him,  only  he  would  not  have  it  called  Roland. 
"There  had  been,"  he  said,  "one  too  many  of  the 
Treshams  called  Roland.  The  name  was  unlucky; 
and  besides,  the  child  did  not  resemble  his  family. 
It  looked  just  like  the  St.  Penfer  fisher  children." 

Denasia  coloured  furiously,  but  she  answered 
with  the  moderation  of  accepted  punishment,  "Very 
well,  then!  I  will  call  him  'John'  after  my  father. 
I  hope  he  may  be  as  good  a  man." 

Matters  went  on  in  this  unhappy  fashion  until  the 
end  of  October — nay,  they  continually  grew  worse, 
for  poverty  deepened  and  hope  lessened.  Denasia 
had  lost  the  freshness  of  her  beauty,  and  she  was  too 
simple  and  ignorant  to  make  art  replace  nature. 
Indeed,  it  is  doubtful  whether  any  persuasion  could 
have  made  her  imitate  the  "painted  Jezebel"  who 
had  always  been  one  of  the  most  pointed  examples 
of  her  religious  education.  In  her  first  experience 
of  public  life  her  radiant  health  and  colouring 
shamed  all  meaner  aids  and  had  been  amply  suffi 
cient  for  the  brightest  lights  and  the  longest  hours. 


A    COWARDLY  LOVE.  239 

But  that  fierce  ordeal  of  acclimating  under  condi 
tions  of  constant  travel  and  hard  work  had  drained 
even  the  magnificent  vitality  that  had  been  her 
heritage  from  generations  of  seamen,  and  typhoid 
and  unhappy  maternity  had  robbed  her  of  much  of 
her  almost  defiant  youth,  with  its  indomitable  spirit 
and  invincible  hope. 

She  had  become  by  the  close  of  October  pale, 
fragile-looking,  and  woefully  depressed.  Roland 
no  longer  found  her  always  smiling  and  hoping,  and 
he  called  the  change  bad  temper  when  he  ought  to 
have  called  it  hunger.  Not  indeed  hunger  in  its 
baldest  form  for  mere  bread,  but  hunger  just  as  kill 
ing — hunger  for  the  nourishing  delicate  food  and 
proper  tonics  that  were  just  as  necessary  as  bread; 
hunger  for  hope,  for  work,  and,  above  all,  hunger 
for  affection. 

For  Roland  had  begun  privately — yea,  and  some 
times  openly — to  call  himself  a  fool.  And  the  devil, 
who  never  chooses  a  wrong  hour,  sent  him  at  this 
time  an  important  letter  from  Elizabeth.  In  it  she 
told  him  that  Mr.  Burrell  had  died  suddenly  from 
apoplexy,  and  that  she  had  resolved  to  sell  Burrell 
Court  and  make  her  residence  in  London  and 
Lucerne.  She  deplored  his  absence,  and  said  how 
much  she  had  needed  some  one  of  her  own  family 
in  the  removal  from  Cornwall  and  in  the  settlement 
of  her  husband's  estate;  and  she  sent  her  brother  a 
much  smaller  sum  of  money  than  she  had  ever  sent 
before. 

When  Roland  had  finished  reading  this  epistle 
he  looked  at  Denasia.  She  was  walking  about  the 


240  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

room  trying  to  soothe  and  quiet  the  child.  It  was 
very  ill,  and  she  had  not  dared  to  speak  about  a 
doctor.  Therefore  she  was  feeling  hurt  and  sorrow 
ful,  and  when  Roland  said,  "  Elizabeth's  husband  is 
dead,"  she  did  not  answer  him. 

"I  said  that  Elizabeth's  husband  is  dead,"  he 
angrily  reiterated. 

"Very  well.  I  am  not  sorry.  I  should  think  the 
poor  man  would  be  glad  to  escape  from  her." 

"  You  are  speaking  of  my  sister,  Denasia — of  my 
sister,  who  is  a  lady." 

"  I  care  nothing  about  her.  She  could  always 
take  good  care  of  herself.  I  am  heart-broken  for 
my  child,  who  is  ill  and  suffering,  and  I  can  .do 
nothing  for  his  relief — no,  not  even  get  a  doctor." 

Words  still  more  bitter  followed.  Roland  dressed 
himself  and  went  out.  He  was  not  in  a  mood  to 
do  business  or  to  look  for  business;  indeed,  there 
was  no  need  that  he  should  trouble  himself  for  one 
day  when  he  had  Elizabeth's  order  in  his  pocket. 
He  turned  it  into  cash,  bought  the  daily  newspapers, 
and,  the  morning  being  exquisite,  he  took  the  cars  to 
Central  Park.  But  it  was  not  until  he  was  comfort 
ably  seated  in  the  most  retired  arbour  that  he  per 
mitted  himself  to  think. 

Then  he  frankly  said  over  and  over:  "What  a 
fool  I  have  been!  Here  am  I  at  thirty-three  years 
of  age  tied  to  a  plain-looking  fisher-girl  and  her 
cross,  sickly  baby.  All  I  hoped  for  in  her  has 
proved  a  deception.  Her  beauty  has  not  stood  the 
test  of  climate.  Motherhood,  that  improves  and 
perfects  most  women,  has  personally  wrecked  her. 


A    COWARDLY  LOVE.  241 

Her  voice  is  now  commonplace.  Her  songs  are 
become  tiresome.  She  has  grown  fretful,  and  all 
her  brightness  and  hopefulness  have  vanished.  I  do 
not  know  how  to  make  a  living.  I  may  as  well  admit 
that  my  dramatic  views  are  a  failure — that  is,  they 
are  in  advance  of  the  times.  I  can  do  nothing  for 
myself.  But  if  I  had  not  been  married,  what  a 
jolly  time  I  might  now  be  having  with  Elizabeth! 
London,  Paris,  Switzerland,  and  no  care  or  trouble 
of  any  kind.  Oh,  what  a  fool  I  have  been!  How 
terribly  I  have  been  deceived!" 

He  did  not  take  into  consideration  Denasia's  dis 
appointment.  He  had  no  doubt  Denasia  was  tell 
ing  all  her  own  sorrows  to  herself  and  weeping  over 
them  and  her  miserable  little  baby.  After  a  while 
he  lit  a  fresh  cigar  and  opened  the  newspapers. 
For  an  hour  or  two  he  let  his  thoughts  drift  as  they 
led  him,  and  then,  as  he  was  folding  up  one,  the  fol 
lowing  notice  met  his  vision: 

"  Wanted,  a  private  secretary.  A  young  man  who 
has  had  a  classical  education  preferred.  Call  upon 
Mr.  Edward  Lanhearne,  9  Fifth  Avenue." 

The  name  struck  Roland.  He  had  heard  it  before. 
It  had  a  happy  memory,  an  air  of  prosperity  about 
it.  Lanhearne!  It  was  a  Cornish  name!  That  cir 
cumstance  gave  him  the  clew.  When  he  was  a  boy 
at  Eton,  he  remembered  a  Mr.  Lanhearne  who  stayed 
with  his  father.  "By  Jove!"  he  cried,  starting  to 
his  feet,  "he  was  an  American.  What  a  piece  of  luck 
it  would  be  if  it  should  be  the  same  man!"  He 
fixed  the  address  in  his  mind  and  went  to  it  imme 
diately. 
16 


24*  A    SINGER  FROM  THE  SEA. 

The  house  pleased  him.  It  was  a  large  dwelling 
fronting  on  the  avenue.  A  handsome  carriage  was 
just  leaving  the  door,  and  in  the  carriage  was  a  very 
lovely  young  woman.  The  entrance,  the  reception 
parlour,  the  servant  who  admitted  him,  all  the  appar 
ent  accessories  of  the  house  and  household  indi 
cated  wealth  and  refinement.  What  a  heaven  in 
comparison  with  that  back  room  on  Second  Avenue! 
For  the  first  time  in  many  a  month  Roland  had  a 
sense  of  success  in  what  he  was  going  to  do,  and  the 
feeling  gave  him  a  portion  of  the  elements  neces 
sary  to  success. 

Mr.  Lanhearne  received  him  at  o:ice.  He  was  a 
kindly  looking  old  gentleman,  with  fine  manners  and 
an  intelligent  face. 

"Mr.  Tresham,"  he  said,  "I  was  attracted  by 
your  name.  I  once  had  a  friend — a  very  pleasant 
friend  indeed,  called  Tresham." 

"Did  he  live  in  London,  sir?" 

"He  did." 

"  He  was  Lord  Mayor  in  the  year  18 — ?" 

"  He  was.      Did  you  know  him?" 

"I  am  his  son.  I  remember  you  very  well.  You 
went  with  me  and  my  father  to  buy  my  first  pony." 

"I  did  indeed.  Mr.  Tresham,  sit  down,  sir.  You 
are  very  welcome.  I  am  grateful  for  your  visit. 
And  how  is  my  old  acquaintance?  I  have  not 
heard  of  him  for  many  years.  We  are  both  Cornish- 
men,  and  you  know  the  Cornish  motto  is  'One  and 
all.'" 

"  My  father  is  dead.  He  had  great  financial  mis. 
fortunes.  He  did  not  survive  them  long.  I  came 


A    COWARDLY  LOVE.  243 

to  America  hoping  to  find  a  better  opening,  but 
nothing  has  gone  well  with  me.  This  morning  I 
saw  your  advertisement.  I  think  I  can  do  all  you 
require,  and  I  shall  be  very  glad  indeed  of  the  posi 
tion." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  America,  Mr. 
Tresham  ?" 

"  More  than  a  year.  I  went  West  at  once,  spent 
my  money,  and  failed  in  every  effort." 

"  To  be  sure.  The  West  is  for  physical  and  finan 
cial  energies.  I  think  if  a  young  man  is  to  rely  on 
his  mental  qualities  he  had  better  remain  East.  I 
am  glad  you  have  called  upon  me.  The  duties  I 
wish  attended  to  are  very  simple.  You  will  have 
to  read  my  mail  every  morning  and  answer  it  as  I 
verbally  direct.  With  the  help  of  printed  plates 
you  will  arrange  my  coins  and  seals  and  such  mat 
ters.  I  wish  you  also  to  read  the  newspapers  to  me. 
In  a  day  or  two  you  will  find  out  which  articles  to 
read  and  which  to  omit.  I  want  a  companion  for 
my  drives.  I  want  some  one  to  chat  with  me  on 
my  various  hobbies — a  young  man,  because  young 
men  have  such  positive  opinions,  and  therefore  we 
shall  be  likely  to  come  to  pleasant  disputing.  You 
will  have  a  handsome  room,  a  seat  at  my  table,  a 
place  among  my  guests,  and  one  hundred  dollars  a 
month." 

"I  am  very  grateful  to  you,  sir." 

"And  I  am  very  grateful  to  the  kind  fate  which 
sent  you  to  me.  I  owe  your  father  for  many  a 
delightful  day.  I  am  glad  to  pay  my  debt  to  his  son. 
When  can  you  come  here  ?" 


244  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

"This  afternoon,  sir." 

"  I  like  that.  We  dine  at  seven.  I  will  expect 
you  to  dinner.  Do  you — ahem! — excuse  me,  Mr. 
Tresham,  perhaps  you  may  require  a  little  money  in 
advance.  I  shall  be  pleased  to  accommodate  you." 

"You  offer  is  gracious  and  considerate,  sir.  I 
am  glad  you  made  it,  although  I  do  not  fortunately 
need  to  accept  it." 

They  clasped  hands  and  parted  with  smiles.  Mr. 
Lanhearne  was  quite  excited  over  the  adventure. 
He  longed  for  his  daughter  to  come  home,  that  he 
might  tell  her  what  a  romantic  answer  had  come 
to  his  prosaic  advertisement.  And  Roland  was  still 
more  excited.  The  air  of  the  house,  its  peace, 
refinement,  and  luxury  appealed  irresistibly  to  him. 
It  was  his  native  air.  He  wondered  how  he  had 
endured  the  vulgarity  and  penury  of  his  surround 
ings  for  so  long;  how  indeed  he  had  borne  with 
Denasia's  shortcomings  at  all.  That  refined  old 
gentleman,  that  quiet,  elegant  woman  whom  he  had 
had  a  glimpse  of — these  people  were  like  himself, 
of  his  own  order — he  would  never  weary  of  them. 
The  class  he  had  voluntarily  chosen,  the  people 
with  whom  poverty  had  compelled  him  to  consort, 
they  affected  him  now  as  the  memory  of  a  debauch 
affects  a  man  when  it  is  over. 

"I  had  no  business  out  of  my  proper  sphere,"  he 
said  sadly.  "Elizabeth  was  right — right  even 
about  Denasia. " 

He  sat  down  in  Union  Square  to  consider  his  posi 
tion,  and  he  came  to  a  very  rapid  and  positive  con 
clusion.  He  declared  to  himself:  "I  will  no  longer 


A    COWARDLY  LOVE.  245 

waste  my  life.  Denasia  and  I  have  made  a  great 
mistake.  Together,  we  shall  be  poor  and  miser 
able.  Apart,  we  shall  be  happy.  I  no  longer  love 
her.  I  do  not  believe  she  loves  me.  All  the  love 
she  can  spare  from  her  blustering  father  and  mother 
she  wastes  on  that  miserable  sickly  babe,  who  would 
be  a  thousand  times  better  dead  than  alive.  If  I 
leave  her  she  will  go  back  to  St.  Penfer.  I  have 
a  hundred  dollars;  I  will  give  her  fifty  of  them. 
She  can  pay  a  steerage  passage  out  of  it  or  go  in  a 
sailing-vessel,  or  if  she  does  not  like  that  way  she 
has  things  she  can  sell.  If  I  give  her  half  of  what 
I  have  I  do  very  well  indeed." 

He  went  rapidly  to  his  home,  or  room.  He  knew 
that  Denasia  had  an  engagement  to  keep,  and  he 
hoped  that  he  might  be  fortunate  enough  to  find  her 
out.  It  was  as  he  wished:  Denasia  had  gone  out 
and  the  landlady  was  sitting  beside  the  baby's 
cradle.  Roland  dismissed  her  with  that  manner 
all  women  declared  to  be  charming,  and  then  he  sat 
down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  his  wife.  It  did  not 
occupy  him  ten  minutes.  Some  of  his  clothing  was 
yet  very  good  and  fashionable;  he  packed  it  in  the 
leather  trap  which  had  gone  with  him  to  college, 
and  then  he  sent  a  little  girl  for  a  cab.  Without 
word  and  without  observation  he  drove  away  from 
the  scene  of  so  much  vexation  and  disappointment. 

The  whole  life  and  vicinity  had  suddenly  become 
horrible  to  him — Denasia,  his  child,  the  shabby 
landlady,  the  shabby  house,  the  dirty  little  grocery 
at  the  corner  where  he  had  bought  his  cigars  and 
their  small  household  supplies,  the  meals  cooked 


246  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

there  and  eaten  there,  Denasia's  attempts  at  house 
keeping — the  whole  series  of  memories  made  him 
wince  and  shiver  with  shame  and  annoyance. 
"  Thank  God  it  is  over!"  he  said  fervently.  And 
he  never  once  thought  what  an  insult  he  was  offer 
ing  to  eternal  mercy  and  justice,  in  supposing  God 
had  anything  whatever  to  do  with  his  flagrant  deser 
tion  of  duty,  his  shameful  abrogation  of  all  the  con 
sequences  of  his  own  wilful  selfishness,  and  his  cruel 
farewell  to  the  wife  and  son  he  was  bound  to  nour 
ish  and  cherish  and  defend. 

He  thought  of  none  of  these  things.  He  thought 
only  of  the  comfort  and  elegance,  the  peace,  the 
delicate  living,  the  delicate  clothing,  the  congenial 
companionship  he  was  going  to.  He  was  deter 
mined  to  have  a  luxurious  bath,  to  be  shaved  and 
perfumed,  to  leave  behind  him  the  very  dust  of  his 
past  life.  He  resolved  not  to  allow  himself  to 
remember  Denasia.  She  was  to  be  as  if  she  never 
had  been.  He  would  blot  out  of  his  memory  all 
the  years  she  had  brightened  and  darkened.  And 
if  any  excuse  can  be  found  for  him,  it  must  be  in  his 
supposition  that  Denasia  felt  just  as  he  did.  She 
would  be  grateful  to  him  for  taking  the  initiative — 
glad  to  get  back  to  her  home  and  her  people,  glad 
to  escape  a  life  for  which  she  must  have  discovered 
she  had  neither  strength  nor  vocation. 

So  he  thought,  in  spite  of  his  resolve  not  to  think. 
But  a  man  must  be  even  more  selfish  and  reckless 
than  Roland  was  to  take  years  of  his  past  life  and 
plunge  them  into  oblivion  as  he  would  plunge  a 
stone  into  mid-ocean.  In  spite  of  the  novelty  of 


A    COWARDLY  LOVE.  247 

his  situation,  of  his  delight  with  his  quiet,  hand 
some  room,  the  thought  of  Denasia  would  enter 
where  it  was  forbidden  to  enter,  and  he  could  not 
help  wondering  how  she  would  receive  his  letter, 
and  what  steps  she  would  take  in  consequence  of  it. 

Denasia  came  home  weary  and  disappointed.  She 
had  had  a  long,  silent  wait  for  the  person  she  ex 
pected  to  see,  and  finally  been  compelled  to  accept 
the  fact  that  he  was  not  coming  into  town.  She 
was  heart-sick,  and  the  paltry  loss  of  the  car  fare 
was  an  addition  to  her  anxiety.  That  the  room  was 
empty  and  the  baby  crying  did  not  in  any  way 
astonish  her.  She  understood  from  it  that  Roland 
had  come  home  and  dismissed  the  landlady,  and 
then  wearied  of  his  watch  and  gone  out  again,  leav 
ing  the  child  to  sleep  or  to  weep  as  it  felt  inclined  to 
do.  Her  first  action  was  to  lift  it  from  its  bed,  nurse 
and  comfort  it,  and  rock  it  to  sleep  on  her  breast. 

Then  her  eyes  wandered  from  her  child  to  a  letter 
lying  on  the  table.  The  circumstance  roused  no 
interest  in  her  mind.  She  knew  from  its  general 
appearance  that  it  had  been  put  there  by  Roland, 
and  it  was  by  no  means  the  first  time  he  had  left  the 
child  with  a  letter  containing  some  excuse  which  he 
thought  valid  enough  to  satisfy  Denasia.  She  looked 
at  it  with  a  little  contempt.  She  expected  to  find  it 
assert  that  some  one  had  called  for  him  or  had 
sent  him  a  message  involving  a  possible  engage 
ment,  and  she  knew  the  whole  affair  would  resolve 
itself  into  some  plausible  story,  which  she  would 
either  have  to  accept  or  else  deny,  with  the  certain 
addition  of  a  coolness  or  a  quarrel.  • 


248  A    SINGER    FROM   THE  SEA. 

So  the  letter  lay  until  she  had  put  off  and  away 
her  street  costume.  Then  she  took  it  in  her  hand 
and  sat  down  by  the  open  window  to  read  the  con 
tents.  They  were  short  and  very  much  to  the  point: 

"  DEN  ASIA,  MY  DEAR: — You  have  ceased  to  love  me 
and  I  have  ceased  to  love  you.  You  are  miserable 
and  I  am  miserable.  We  have  made  a  great  mistake, 
and  we  must  do  all  we  can  to  correct  it.  When  you 
read  this  I  shall  be  on  my  way  to  England.  I  ad 
vise  you  to  go  back  to  your  parents  fora  year.  You 
may  in  that  time  recover  your  beauty  and  your  voice. 
It  may  be  well  then  to  go  to  Italy  and  give  your 
self  an  opportunity  to  obtain  the  education  I  see 
now  you  ought  to  have  had  at  the  first.  But  until 
that  is  practicable  we  are  better  apart.  You  will 
find  fifty  dollars  in  the  white  gloves  lying  on  the 
dressing-case.  I  advise  you  to  take  a  sailing-vessel ; 
a  long  voyage  will  do  you  good  and  will  be  much 
cheaper.  It  is  what  I  have  done.  Farewell. 

"ROLAND." 

She  read  every  word  and  then  glanced  at  the  cra 
dle.  The  child  moved.  With  the  letter  in  her  hand 
she  soothed  it  and  then  sat  down  again.  She  was 
overwhelmed  with  the  shameful  wrong.  But  to  cry 
out  and  wring  her  hands  and  call  in  the  neighbours 
to  see  and  hear  what  things  she  suffered  was  not  her 
way.  Often  she  had  seen  her  mother  sitting  speech 
less  and  motionless  for  hours  while  her  father  hung 
between  life  and  death;  it  was  natural  for  Denasia 
to  take  unavoidable  sorrow  with  the  same  dumb 
patience. 


A    COWARDLY  LOVE.  249 

Then  she  began  to  analyse  the  specious  sentences 
and  to  deny  the  things  asserted.  "  I  have  not  ceased 
to  love.  Every  hour  of  the  day  my  life  has  been 
a  witness  to  my  love.  I  never  said  I  was  miserable. 
Nothing  had  power  to  make  me  quite  miserable  if 
Roland  was  kind  to  me.  He  is  on  his  way  to 
England.  Of  course  he  has  gone  to  his  sister. 
What  did  her  sweet  complaints  and  regrets  at  not 
having  his  help  and  company  mean  but  'Come  to  me, 
Roland'  ?  She  has  lost  her  own  husband  and  now 
she  must  have  mine.  She  has  always  been  my  evil 
angel.  When  she  was  kindest  to  me  it  was  only  a 
different  way  of  serving  herself.  My  soul  warned 
me;  my  father  warned  me.  She  is  one  of  those 
human  vampires  who  suck  love,  luck,  life  itself 
from  all  near  them,  and  who  slay,  and  rob,  and 
smile,  and  caress  while  they  do  it.  And  I  am  to  go 
home  for  a  year  and  get  back  my  beauty  and  my 
voice.  I  am  sorry  I  ever  was  beautiful.  If  I  can 
help  it  I  will  never  sing  another  song.  Go  home 
and  shame  my  good  father  and  mother  for  his  sake? 
Go  home  and  be  lectured  and  advised  and  reproved 
by  every  woman  in  the  village?  Go  home  a  deserted 
wife,  a  failure  in  everything?  No;  I  will  not  go 
home.  Nor  will  I  go  to  Italy.  I  have  had  more 
than  enough  of  singing  for  my  living  and  his  living, 
too.  I  will  sew,  I  will  wash,  I  will  go  to  service,  I 
will  do  anything  with  my  hands  I  can  do;  but  I 
will  not  sing.  And  I  will  bring  up  my  boy  to  work 
at  real  work,  if  it  is  but  to  make  a  horseshoe  out  of 
a  lump  of  iron!  God!  what  a  foolish  woman  I 
have  been!  What  a  silly,  vain,  loving  woman!  My 


250  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

heart  will  break!  My  heart  will  break!  Alone, 
alone!  Sick,  helpless,  ignorant,  alone!" 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  hid  her  face,  and  in  that 
darkness  gathered  together  her  soul-strength.  But 
she  shed  no  tears.  Pale  as  death,  weak  and  trem 
bling  with  suppressed  emotion,  she  went  softly  about 
the  little  room  putting  things  in  order — doing  she 
scarcely  knew  what,  yet  feeling  the  necessity  to  be 
doing  something.  Thus  she  came  across  the  white 
gloves,  and  she  feared  to  look  in  them.  Her  knowl 
edge  of  Roland  led  her  to  think  he  would  not  leave 
fifty  dollars  behind  him.  He  would  take  the  credit 
of  the  gift  and  leave  her  to  suppose  herself  robbed 
by  some  intruder  or  visitor. 

So  she  looked  suspiciously  at  the  bit  of  white 
kid  and  undid  it  without  hope.  The  money  was 
there.  After  all,  Roland  had  some  pity  for  her. 
The  sight  of  the  bills  subdued  her  proud  restraint. 
One  great  pressure  was  lifted.  No  one  could  now 
interfere  if  she  sent  for  a  doctor  for  her  sick  baby. 
She  could  at  least  buy  it  the  medicine  that  would 
ease  its  sufferings.  And  so  far  out  was  the  tide  of 
her  happiness  that  from  this  reflection  alone  she 
drew  a  kind  of  consolation. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

DEATH     IS     DAWN. 

"  In  the  pettiest  character  there  are  unfathomable  depths." 

"  Only  one  Judge  is  just,  for  only  one 
Knoweth  the  hearts  of  men." 

Sayeth  the  book:   "  There  passeth  no  man's  soul 
Except  by  God's  permission,  and  the  speech 

Writ  in  the  scroll  determining  the  whole, 

The  times  of  all  men,  and  the  times  for  each." 

— KORAN,  3d  CHAP. 

THE  Lanhearnes  by  an  old-fashioned  standard 
were  a  very  wealthy  family.  They  were  also  a 
large  family,  though  the  sons  had  been  scattered  by 
their  business  exigencies  and  the  eldest  daughters 
by  marriage.  Only  Ada,  the  youngest  child  of  the 
house,  remained  with  her  father;  for  the  mother  had 
been  dead  many  years,  and  the  preservation  of  the 
idea  of  home  was  felt  by  all  the  Lanhearne  children 
to  be  in  Ada's  hands.  If  she  married  and  went 
away,  who  then  would  keep  open  the  dear  old  house 
and  give  a  bright  welcome  to  their  yearly  visits? 

Ada,  however,  was  not  inclined  to  marriage. 
She  was  a  grave,  quiet  woman  of  twenty-two  years 
of  age,  whose  instincts  were  decidedly  spiritual 
and  whose  hopes  and  pleasures  had  little  to  do  with 
this  world.  She  was  interested  in  all  church  duties 
251 


252  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

and  in  all  charitable  enterprises.  Mission  schools 
and  chapels  filled  her  heart,  and  she  paid  out  of  her 
private  purse  a  good-hearted  little  missionary  to 
find  out  for  her  cases  of  deserving  poverty  which  it 
was  her  delight  to  relieve. 

Roland  had  never  before  come  in  contact  with 
such  a  woman,  and  at  a  distance  he  gave  her  a  kind 
of  adoration.  Young,  beautiful,  rich,  and  yet  keep 
ing  herself  unspotted  from  the  world  or  going  into 
it  only  to  relieve  suffering,  to  dry  the  tears  of 
childhood,  and  strengthen  the  failing  hearts  of  un 
happy  women.  Once  while  walking  with  Mr.  Lan- 
hearne  the  old  gentleman  said:  "This  is  Ada's 
church.  As  the  door  is  open  let  us  enter  and  wait 
for  prayers."  So  out  of  the  rush  and  crush  of  Broad 
way  the  old  and  the  young  man  turned  into  the 
peace  of  the  temple.  And  as  they  entered  Ada 
rose  up  from  before  the  altar,  and  with  a  pale,  rapt 
face  glided  into  the  solitude  of  her  own  pew. 
Neither  spoke  of  the  circumstance,  but  on  Roland's 
mind  it  made  a  deep  impression.  At  that  hour  he 
realised  how  beautiful  a  thing  is  true  religion  and 
how  holy  a  thing  is  a  woman  pure  of  heart,  calmly 
radiant  from  the  very  presence  of  God. 

In  spite  of  the  unhappy  memories  of  the  past,  in 
spite  of  the  worrying  thoughts  which  would  intrude 
concerning  Denasia,  he  was  not  at  this  time  very 
happy.  Certainly  not  happy  enough  to  contemplate 
a  long  continuance  of  the  life  he  was  leading,  but 
well  satisfied  to  pass  the  winter  in  its  refined  and 
easy  seclusion.  He  knew  that  Elizabeth  would  be 
in  London  until  June,  and  he  resolved  to  remain  in 


DEATH  IS  DAWN.  253 

New  York  until  she  left  for  Switzerland.  He  would 
then  join  her  at  Paris  and  spend  the  summer  and 
autumn  in  her  company;  beyond  that  he  did  not 
much  trouble  himself. 

He  had,  indeed,  a  vague  dream  of  then  quietly 
visiting  Denasia  and  determining  whether  it  would 
be  worth  while  to  educate  her  for  grand  opera.  For 
the  idea  had  taken  such  deep  root  in  his  mind  that 
he  could  not  teach  himself  to  regard  the  future 
without  it,  and  now  that  Elizabeth  had  full  control 
of  her  riches,  he  did  not  contemplate  any  difficulty 
about  money  matters.  He  still  believed  in  Denasia's 
voice,  and  he  had  seen  that  her  dramatic  talents 
were  above  the  average;  so  even  in  the  charmed 
atmosphere  of  the  Lanhearne  home,  he  could  still 
think  with  pleasure  of  being  the  husband  of  a  famous 
prima  donna. 

He  was  sure  that  Denasia  had  returned  to  St. 
Penfer.  He  knew  that  ever  since  they  came  to 
America  she  had  written  at  intervals  to  her  parents, 
and  though  it  was  indeed  a  labour  of  love  for  either 
John  or  Joan  to  write  a  letter,  Denasia  had  had  sev 
eral  communications  from  them.  Evidently,  then, 
she  had  been  forgiven,  and  he  had  no  doubt  that  for 
the  sake  of  her  child  she  hurried  homeward  as  soon 
as  it  was  possible  for  her  to  secure  a  passage. 

Still  he  allowed  three  weeks  to  pass  ere  he  made 
any  inquiries.  During  those  three  weeks  his  own 
life  had  settled  into  very  easy  and  pleasant  ways. 
He  breakfasted  alone  or  with  Mr.  Lanhearne. 
Then  he  read  the  morning  papers  aloud  and  attended 
to  the  mail.  If  the  weather  were  favourable,  this 


254  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

duty  was  followed  by  a  stroll  or  drive  in  the  park. 
Afterward  he  was  very  much  at  leisure  until  dinner 
time,  and  at  nine  o'clock  Mr.  Lanhearne's  retire 
ment  to  his  own  room  gave  him  those  evening  hours 
which  most  young  men  consider  the  desirable  ones. 
Roland  generally  went  to  some  theatre  or  musical 
entertainment.  There  was  always  the  vague  ex 
pectation  of  seeing  and  hearing  Denasia,  and  he 
scarcely  knew  whether  his  disappointment  was  a 
pleasure  or  an  annoyance. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  week  he  ventured  to  the 
Second  Avenue  house.  The  room  they  had  occupied 
was  dark.  He  watched  it  until  midnight.  If 
Denasia  had  been  singing  anywhere,  she  would  cer 
tainly  have  returned  to  her  child  before  that  hour. 
The  next  night  he  sent  a  messenger  to  inquire  for 
her  address,  and  the  boy  said,  "  It  was  not  known. 
Mrs.  Tresham  had  left  two  weeks  before.  She  had 
spoken  of  England,  but  it  was  not  positively  known 
that  she  had  gone  there." 

"She  is  likely  in  St.  Penfer  by  this  time,"  men 
tally  commented  Roland,  and  the  thought  gave  him 
comfort.  He  did  want  Denasia  and  the  baby  to  be 
taken  care  of,  and  he  knew  they  would  want  no 
necessary  thing  in  John  Penelles'  cottage.  But  it 
was  this  very  certainty  of  Denasia's  return  to 
England  which  really  detained  Roland  in  America. 
He  had  no  desire  to  meet  John  Penelles  until  time 
had  healed  the  wound  he  had  given  John's  daughter. 
John  would  be  sure  to  seek  him  out  in  London,  and 
there  might  be  no  end  of  trouble;  but  John  would 
not  come  to  America,  nor  would  he  be  likely  in  the 


DEATH  IS  DAWN.  255 

summer  season  to  leave  the  fishing  and  seek  him 
either  in  Paris  or  Switzerland.  As  for  Elizabeth, 
she  knew  from  her  brother's  letters  that  he  had 
deceived  and  left  his  wife,  and  she  had,  of  course, 
thought  it  proper  to  offer  a  feeble  remonstrance, 
but  Roland  knew  right  well  she  would  never  betray 
his  hiding-place. 

So  Roland  lived  on  week  after  week  in  luxurious 
thoughtlessness.  Mr.  Lanhearne  grew  very  fond  of 
him,  and  Ada,  in  spite  of  her  numerous  objects  of 
charitable  interest,  found  it  singularly  pleasant  to 
discuss  with  so  handsome  and  intelligent  a  com 
panion  religious  topics  on  which  their  opinions  were 
widely  apart.  Indeed,  she  honestly  accepted  the 
evident  duty  of  leading  him  back  to  the  safe  and 
narrow  road  of  creditable  dogmas.  And  with  such 
a  fair,  earnest  teacher  it  was  easy,  it  was  natural 
for  Roland  to  affect  an  interest  in  the  subject  he 
did  not  really  feel. 

Dangerous  ground  for  both,  but  especially  so  for 
the  lovely  young  woman  whose  sincerity  and  single 
ness  of  purpose  led  her  to  believe  that  a  very  natural 
and  womanly  instinct  was  the  prompting  of  a  spir 
itual  concern  for  an  immortal  soul  wandering  from 
the  right  path.  Roland  as  a  hypocrite,  affecting  a 
piety  he  despised,  would  not  have  been  either  so 
captivating  or  so  dangerous  as  Roland  honestly 
ignorant  and  doubtful,  yet  willing  to  be  taught  and 
convinced. 

Dangerous  ground  for  both,  for  both  constantly 
assured  themselves  there  was  no  danger.  Ada  Lan 
hearne  was  not  a  woman  that  any  man  could  approach 


256  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

with  laughter  or  half-concealed  flirtation.  And 
Roland  had  no  desire  to  overstep  the  boundary  her 
noble  presence  inspired.  Also,  Denasia  held  him 
by  the  mysterious  strength  of  the  marriage  tie. 
Apart  from  her  and  relieved  of  the  petty  cares 
which  degraded  their  love,  he  forgot  her  shortcom 
ings  and  thought  more  and  more  frequently  of  her 
affectionate,  forgiving  heart.  The  radiance  of  her 
youthful  beauty  was  still  in  his  memory,  and  the 
haunting  charm  of  her  voice  called  him  at  all  kinds 
of  incongruous  hours.  He  awoke  at  night  with  the 
silvery  cry  of  "  Caller  Herrin'  "  in  his  ears.  At  the 
dinner-table  he  heard  her  light  musical  laugh  ring 
through  the  decorous,  quiet  room,  and  often  when 
discussing  an  old  Roman  coin  with  Mr.  Lanhearne 
he  felt  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  feared  to 
turn  lest  her  face  should  confront  him. 

Ada's  beaming  eyes,  and  soft  voice,  and  mystical 
rapture  of  holy  enthusiasm  touched  him  on  quite 
a  different  side  of  his  nature.  She  made  him  long 
to  be  good — he  was  almost  afraid  he  would  become 
good  if  he  dwelt  too  much  in  her  presence.  And 
he  did  not  desire  to  be  so — not  just  yet.  But  as 
she  talked  so  earnestly  to  him  of  righteousness,  and 
duty  and  the  life  to  come,  it  was  impossible  that 
he  should  not  in  some  way  respond.  And  when  his 
handsome  eyes  were  shadowed  with  feeling  and  his 
gay  face  and  manner  subdued  to  the  gravity  of  the 
subject,  it  was  equally  impossible  for  the  youn-g 
teacher  not  to  be  moved  by  the  evidences  of  her 
own  eloquent  persuasion. 

After  all,  much  must  be  left  to  the  imagination; 


DEATH  IS  DAWN.  257 

the  situation  was  so  full  of  possibilities,  so  abso 
lutely  free  of  all  wrong  conditions,  so  ready  to  yield 
itself  to  many  wrong  conditions.  Roland's  days 
went  by  in  a  placid  sameness,  which  did  not  become 
fretting,  because  he  knew  he  should  end  its  pleasant 
monotony  of  his  own  free  will  in  a  very  few  weeks. 
And  Ada  had  never  before  been  so  happy.  Why 
should  she  ask  herself  the  reason?  To  question 
fate  is  not  a  fortunate  thing,  at  any  rate;  she  felt  a 
reluctance  to  begin  a  catechism  with  her  feelings 
or  her  surroundings. 

So  the  Christmas  came  and  went,  and  the  days 
lengthened  and  the  cold  strengthened,  and  there 
was  so  much  misery  among  the  poor  that  Ada's 
time  and  money  were  taxed  to  their  uttermost  use 
and  ability.  And  the  suffering  she  saw  left  its 
shadow  on  her  fair  face.  She  was  quieter  because 
her  thoughts  were  deep  in  her  heart  and  did  not 
therefore  readily  resolve  themselves  into  words. 
The  mystery  of  the  whole  creation  suffering  together 
oppressed  and  solemnized  her  life,  for  it  was  no 
hearsay  of  cold,  and  hunger,  and  wretchedness  that 
touched  Ada.  She  sat  down  on  the  cold  hearths 

^^ 

with  broken-hearted  wives  and  mothers,  and  held 
upon  her  knees  the  little  children  ready  to  perish. 
Money  she  gave  to  the  uttermost,  but  with  the 
money  something  infinitely  more  precious — love, 
like  that  which  made  the  Christ  put  His  hand  upon 
the  leper  as  well  as  heal  him;  womanly  sympathy, 
which  listened  patiently  to  tales  of  intolerable 
wrongs  and  to  the  moans  of  extreme  physical 
suffering. 
17 


258  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

In  her  own  home  she  seldom  spoke  of  these  ex 
periences.  Mr.  Lanhearne  did  not  altogether  approve 
of  them.  Like  the  centurion  of  old,  he  thought  it 
was  sufficient  to  "speak  the  word  only,"  that  is,  to 
give  the  money  necessary  to  relieve  suffering.  And 
he  did  not  see  why  his  child's  life  should  be  shadowed 
by  carrying  the  griefs  of  others.  So  there  was  very 
seldom  any  talk  on  these  matters,  unless  Ada  re 
quired  assistance.  Then  she  spoke  with  such  clear 
sincerity  and  pathos  that  her  father  felt  it  to  be  a 
privilege  to  be  her  right  hand,  and  for  the  time 
being  was  probably  as  enthusiastic  as  herself.  But 
these  were  rare  occasions;  Ada  was  too  wise  and 
considerate  to  stretch  a  generous  or  a  gentle  emo 
tion  until  it  failed. 

One  bitterly  cold  night  in  February  Roland  re 
turned  to  Lanhearne  House  in  a  particularly  unhappy 
mood.  He  had  been  down-town  as  far  as  Twenty- 
third  Street,  and  had  been  subjected  to  all  the 
depressing  influences  of  the  cold,  brown-stony  city, 
swept  by  that  most  cruel  of  winds — the  east  wind 
which  comes  with  a  thaw.  The  sullen  poor,  stand 
ing  desperate  and  scornful  at  the  street  corners, 
seemed  to  cast  a  malevolent  eye  upon  his  handsome, 
well-clothed  person.  There  had  been  a  terrible 
accident,  followed  by  a  fire,  somewhere  in  the  city, 
and  the  raw,  cutting  air  was  full  of  its  horror.  As 
he  passed  a  group  of  men,  a  poor  shivering  creature 
said  passionately,  "Accident  indeed!  All  acci 
dents  are  crimes!"  The  friction  of  the  interests 
and  wills  encompassing  him  evolved  an  atmosphere 
which  he  had  no  strength  to  antagonise.  He  simply 


DEATH  IS   DAWN.  259 

submitted  to  its  worry  and  restlessness  and  unhappy 
discontent,  and  so  carried  the  spirit  home  with  him. 

It  was  met  on  the  threshold  by  influences  that 
drove  it  back  into  the  desolate  street.  The  warm, 
light  house  and  the  peace  and  luxury  of  his  own 
room  soothed  his  mental  sense  of  something  wrong. 
And  when  he  descended  to  the  parlour,  he  was 
instantly  encompassed  by  soft  warmth,  by  firelight 
and  gaslight,  by  all  the  visible  signs  and  audible 
sounds  of  sincere  pleasure  in  his  advent.  Mr.  Lan- 
hearne  had  a  new  periodical  to  discuss,  and  Ada, 
though  unusually  grave,  lifted  her  still  face  with 
the  smile  of  welcome  on  it. 

She  had,  however,  an  evident  anxiety,  and  Mr. 
Lanhearne  probably  divined  its  origin,  for  after 
dinner  was  over  he  said:  "Ada,  I  saw  your  little 
missionary  here,  late.  Is  there  anything  very 
wrong?" 

"I  was  just  going  to  tell  you,  father.  Mr. 
Tresham  may  listen  also,  it  can  do  him  no  harm. 
Mrs.  Dodge  came  to  tell  me  of  a  most  distressing 
case.  She  was  visiting  an  old  patient  in  a  large 
tenement,  and  the  woman  told  her  to  call  at  the 
room  directly  above  her.  As  she  went  away  she 
did  so.  It  was  only  four  o'clock  then,  but  in  that 
place  quite  dark.  When  she  reached  the  door  she 
heard  a  voice  praying — heard  a  voice  thanking  God 
amid  sobs  and  tears — oh,  father,  what  for?  For  the 
death  of  her  baby!  Crying  out  in  a  passion  of 
gratitude  because  it  was  released  from  hunger  and 
cold  and  suffering!" 

Mr.    Lanhearne  covered    his    face,    and    Roland 


26o  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

looked  at  Ada  with  his  large  eyes  troubled  and 
misty.  The  girl  was  speechless  for  a  moment  or 
two,  and  Roland  watched  her  sympathetic  face  and 
saw  tears  drop  upon  her  clasped  hands.  Then  she 
resumed:  "Mrs.  Dodge  entered  softly.  The  mother 
was  sitting  on  a  chair  with  her  dead  baby  across  her 
knees.  There  was  no  fire,  no  candle  in  the  room, 
but  the  light  from  an  oil-lamp  in  a  near  window 
fell  upon  the  white  faces  of  the  mother  and  her 
dead  child.  There  is  no  need  to  tell  you  that  Mrs. 
Dodge  quickly  made  a  fire,  cooked  the  poor  famished 
creature  a  meal,  and  then  prepared  the  dead  child 
for  its  burial.  But  she  says  the  mother  is  dis 
tracted  because  she  cannot  buy  it  a  grave  and.  a 
coffin.  I  have  promised  to  do  that;  you  will  help 
me,  father?  I  know  you  will." 

"  To  be  sure  I  will,  Ada.  To  be  sure,  my  dear 
one!  I  will  help  gladly.  Has  the  poor,  sorrowful 
woman  no  husband  to  comfort  her  in  this  extremity?" 

"She  says  he  is  dead.  Her  history  is  a  little  out 
of  the  common.  She  is  an  English  woman  and  was 
a  public  singer.  The  name  she  is  known  by  is 
Mademoiselle  Denasia — but  that,  of  course,  is  not 
her  real  name." 

A  quick,  sharp  cry  broke  from  Roland's  lips.  He 
was  grey  as  ashes.  He  trembled  visibly  and  stood 
up,  though  his  emotion  compelled  him  instantly  to 
reseat  himself.  He  was  on  the  point  of  losing  con 
sciousness.  Mr.  Lanhearne  and  Ada  looked  at  him 
with  anxiety,  and  Mr.  Lanhearne  went  to  his  side. 

"I  am  better,"  he  said  with  a  heavy  sigh.  "I 
knew — I  knew  this  poor  woman!  I  told  you  I  was 


DEATH  IS  DAWN.  261 

once  on  the  road  with  a  company.  She  was  in  it. 
Her  husband  was  a  brute — a  mean,  selfish,  cowardly 
brute — he  ought  to  be  dead.  I  should  like  to  help 
her — to  see  her — what  is  the  street?  the  number? 
Excuse  me — I  was  shocked!" 

"I  see,  Mr.  Tresham,"  answered  Ada,  kindly. 
She  had  some  ivory  tablets  by  her  side,  and  she 
looked  at  them  and  said,  "  It  is  a  very  long  way — 
One  Hundred  and  Seventieth  Street — here  is  the 
address.  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  can  do  anything  to 
help.  I  am  sure  she  is  worthy — she  has  had  good 
parents  and  been  taught  to  pray." 

"My  dear  Ada,"  said  Mr.  Lanhearne,  " sorrow 
forces  men  and  women  down  upon  their  knees;  even 
dumb  beasts  in  their  extremity  cry  unto  God,  and 
He  heareth  them.  And  as  for  being  worthy  of  help 
— if  worthiness  were  the  condition,  which  of  us 
durst  pray  for  consolation  in  the  hour  of  our  trouble  ? 
God  has  a  nobler  scale.  He  sends  his  rain  upon  the 
just  and  the  unjust,  and  He  never  yet  asked  a  sup 
pliant,  'Whose  son  art  thou?'  " 

Roland  was  grateful  for  this  little  discussion.  It 
gave  him  a  minute  or  two  in  which  to  summon  his 
soul  to  face  the  position.  He  was  able  when  Mr. 
Lanhearne  ceased  speaking  to  say: 

"Mademoiselle  Denasia  is  a  Cornish  woman.  She 
comes  from  a  village  not  far  from  where  my  father 
lived.  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  stand  by  her  in  her 
sorrow.  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  anything  Miss  Lan 
hearne  thinks  it  right  to  do." 

The  subject  was  then  dropped,  but  Roland  could 
take  up  no  other  subject.  With  all  his  faults,  he 


262  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

was  still  a  creature  full  of  warm  human  impulses. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  cold,  calculating  villain 
about  him.  He  was  really  shocked  at  the  turn 
events  had  taken.  Mr.  Lanhearne,  who  knew  the 
world  of  men  which  Ada  did  not  know,  mentally 
accused  his  handsome,  sympathetic  secretary  of  some 
knowledge  of  the  unfortunate  singer  which  it  would 
be  best  not  to  investigate;  but  Ada  thought  his  emo 
tion  to  be  entirely  the  outcome  of  an  unusually  tender 
and  affectionate  nature. 

The  incident  affected  the  evening  unhappily. 
Roland  was  not  able  either  to  talk  or  read,  and  Mr. 
Lanhearne,  out  of  pure  sympathy  for  the  miserable 
young  man,  retired  to  his  own  apartment  very  early. 
This  was  always  the  signal  for  Roland's  dismissal, 
and  five  minutes  after  it  Mr.  Lanhearne,  looking 
from  his  window  into  the  bleak,  wind-swept  street, 
saw  Roland  rapidly  descend  the  steps  and  then  turn 
northward. 

"I  was  sure  of  it,"  he  whispered.  "There  is 
more  in  this  affair  than  meets  the  ear,  but  I  like 
the  young  man,  and  why  should  I  rake  among  the 
ashes  of  the  past?  Which  of  us  would  care  for  an 
investigation  of  that  kind?"  Then  he  sat  down 
before  his  fire  and  mentally  followed  Roland  to  the 
bare  loneliness  of  that  poor  home  where  death  and 
the  mother  sat  together. 

For  once  Roland  feared  to  call,  "Denasia!"  He 
hesitated  at  the  foot  of  the  narrow  stair  and  then 
went  softly  to  the  door.  All  within  was  still  as 
the  grave,  but  a  glimmer  of  pale  light  came  from 
under  the  ill-fitting  door.  He  might  be  mistaken 


DEATH  IS   DAWN.  263 

in  the  room,  but  he  resolved  to  try.  He  turned  the 
handle  and  there  was  an  instant  movement.  He 
went  forward  and  Denasia  stood  erect,  facing  him. 
She  made  no  sound  or  sign  of  either  anger,  or  aston 
ishment,  or  affection.  All  her  being  was  concen 
trated  on  the  clay-cold  image  of  humanity  lying  so 
strangely  still  that  it  filled  the  whole  place  with 
its  majesty  of  silence. 

He  closed  the  door  softly  and  said  "Denasia! 
Oh,  Denasia!" 

She  did  not  answer  him,  but  sinking  on  her  knees 
by  the  child,  began  to  sob  with  a  passionate  grief 
that  shook  her  frail  form  as  a  tree  is  shaken  by  a 
tempest. 

"My  dearest!  My  wife!  Forgive  me!  Forgive 
me!  I  thought  you  were  in  St.  Penfer.  As  God 
lives,  I  believed  you  were  with  your  mother.  I 
intended  to  come  to  you,  I  did,  indeed!  Denasia, 
speak  to  me.  I  will  never  leave  you  again — never! 
We  will  go  back  to  England  together.  I  will 
make  you  a  home  there.  I  will  love  and  cherish 
you  for  ever!  Forgive  me,  dear!  I  am  sorry!  I 
am  ashamed  of  myself!  I  hate  myself!  I  do  not 
wonder  you  hate  me  also." 

"  No,  no!  I  do  not  hate  you,  Roland.  I  am  lost 
in  sorrow.  I  cannot  either  love  or  hate." 

"  Let  me  bear  the  sorrow  with  you,  coward,  villain 
that  I  am!" 

"You  did  not  mean  to  be  either.  You  were  tired 
of  misery — men  do  tire.  I  would  have  tired,  too, 
only  for  my  baby.  Oh,  Roland!  Roland!  Roland! 
my  love,  my  husband !  " 


264  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

Then — ah,  then.  No  one  can  put  into  mere  com 
mon  words  the  great  mystery  of  forgiveness.  It  is 
not  in  words.  Heart  beat  against  heart,  eyes  gazed 
into  eyes,  souls  met  upon  clinging  lips,  and  the 
sweet  compact  of  married  love  was  renewed  in  the 
clasping  of  their  long-parted  hands.  They  sat 
down  together  and  spoke  in  soft,  sad  voices  of  the 
great  mistakes  of  the  past.  Until  the  midnight  hour 
they  wept  and  talked  together,  and  then  Denasia 
said: 

"  In  a  short  time  a  poor  woman  who  is  nursing  at 
the  Gilsey  House  will  be  here.  She  is  on  duty 
until  twelve  o'clock,  but  as  soon  as  she  is  released 
she  promised  to  come  and  sit  with  me.  So  yau 
must  leave  me  now,  Roland.  It  is  useless  to  ex 
plain  to  my  neighbours  our  relationship.  They 
would  look  at  you  and  me  and  think  evilly.  I 
would  not  blame  them  if  they  did.  When  all  is 
over  I  will  come  to  you;  until  then  I  will  remain 
alone.  It  is  best  so." 

Nevertheless  Roland  lingered  and  pleaded,  and 
when  he  finally  consented  to  her  wish,  he  left  all 
the  money  he  had  in  her  hands.  She  looked  at  the 
bills  with  a  sad  despair.  "All  these!"  she  whis 
pered,  "all  these  for  a  grave  and  a  coffin!  There 
was  nothing  at  all  to  help  him  to  live." 

"  Nothing  could  have  saved  him,  Denasia.  He 
was  born  under  sentence  of  death.  He  has  been  ill 
all  his  poor  little  life.  My  darling,  believe  that  it 
is  well  with  him  now." 

Yet  her  words  and  tears  troubled  him,  and  he 
bade  her  good-night,  and  then  returned  so  often  that 


DEA  TH  IS  DA  WN.  265 

the  woman  Denasia  had  spoken  of  passed  him  in 
the  narrow  entry,  and  he  paused  and  watched  her 
go  to  his  wife's  room.  Even  then  he  did  not  hurry 
to  his  own  home.  He  went  down  the  side  street, 
and  stood  looking  at  the  glimmering  lamp  in  the 
sorrowful  place  of  death  until  he  became  painfully 
aware  of  the  terribly  damp,  cold  wind  searching 
out  and  chilling  life,  even  to  the  very  marrow  of  the 
bones.  Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  come  out 
in  his  dress  boots,  consequently  his  feet  were  wet 
and  numb,  and  he  had  a  fierce  pain  under  his  shoul 
der.  A  sudden,  uncontrollable  fear  went  to  his  heart 
like  a  death-doom. 

He  had  to  walk  a  long  way  before  he  found  any 
vehicle,  and  when,  after  what  seemed  a  never-ending 
period  of  torture,  he  reached  his  room,  he  knew 
that  he  was  seriously  ill.  But  the  house  had  settled 
for  the  night ;  he  had  a  reluctance  to  awaken  the  ser 
vants;  he  hoped  the  warmth  would  give  him  ease; 
he  was,  in  fact,  quite  unacquainted  with  the  terrible 
malady  which  had  seized  him.  In  the  morning  he 
did  not  appear,  and  after  a  short  delay  Mr.  Lan- 
hearne  sent  him  a  message. 

Roland  was,  however,  by  this  time  in  high  fever 
and  delirious.  The  news  caused  a  momentary  hesi 
tation  and  then  a  positive  decision.  The  hesitation 
was  a  natural  one — "  Should  not  the  young  man  be 
sent  to  the  hospital  ?"  The  decision  came  from  the 
cultivated  humanity  of  a  good  heart — "  No.  Roland 
was  'the  stranger  within  the  gates,'  he  was  a  coun 
tryman,  he  was  more  than  that,  he  was  a  Cornish- 
man. "  In  a  few  moments  Mr.  Lanhearne  had  sent 


266  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

for  his  own  physician  and  a  trained  nurse,  and  he 
went  himself  to  the  side  of  the  sick  man  until  help 
arrived. 

Toward  night  Roland  became  very  restless,  and 
with  a  distressing  effort  constantly  murmured  the 
word  "Denasia. "  Mr.  Lanhearne  thought  he  under 
stood  the  position  exactly,  and  he  had  a  very  par 
donable  hesitation  in  granting  the  half-made  request. 
But  the  monotonous  imploring  became  full  of  an 
guish,  and  he  finally  took  his  daughter  into  his 
councils  and  asked  what  ought  to  be  done. 

"Denasia  ought  to  be  here,"  answered  Ada.  "I 
have  her  address.  Let  Davis  go  for  her." 

"But,  my  dear!  you  do  not  understand  that  she 
may — that  she  is,  perhaps,  not  what  we  should  call  a 
good  woman." 

"Dear  father,  who  among  us  all  is  good?  Even 
Christ  said,  'Why  callest  thou  Me  good?  There  is 
none  good  save  one,  that  is  God. '  We  know  nothing 
wrong  of  her  with  certainty.  Why  not  give  her  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt?  Are  we  not  compelled  to  be 
thus  generous  with  all  our  acquaintances?" 

So  Denasia  was  sent  for.  She  was  sitting  alone 
in  her  comfortless  room.  The  baby  was  gone  away 
for  ever.  Thinking  of  the  lonely  darkness  of  the 
cemetery,  with  the  cold  earth  piled  high  above  the 
little  coffin,  she  felt  a  kind  of  satisfaction  in  her 
own  shivering  solitude  and  silence.  She  was  as  far 
as  possible  keeping  with  the  little  form  a  dreary 
companionship.  Yet  she  had  been  expecting  Ro 
land  and  was  greatly  pained  at  his  apparent  neg 
lect. 


DEATH  IS  DAWN.  267 

When  Davis  knocked  at  the  door  she  said  drearily, 
"Come  in."  She  thought  it  was  her  husband  at 
last. 

"Are  you  Mademoiselle  Denasia?"  inquired  a 
strange  voice. 

A  quick  sense  of  trouble  came  to  her;  she  stood 
up  and  answered  "Yes." 

"  There  is  a  gentleman  at  our  house,  Mr.  Tresham ; 
he  is  very  ill  indeed.  He  asks  for  you  constantly. 
Mr.  Lanhearne  thinks  you  ought  to  come  to  him  at 
once." 

"I  am  ready." 

She  spoke  with  a  dreary  patience  and  instantly 
put  on  her  cloak  and  hat.  Not  another  word  was 
said.  She  asked  no  questions.  She  had  reached 
that  point  where  women  arrest  all  their  feelings  and 
wait.  The  splendid  house,  the  light,  the  warmth, 
all  the  evidences  of  a  luxurious  life  about,  moved 
her  no  more  than  if  she  was  in  a  dream.  A  great 
sorrow  had  put  her  far  above  these  things.  She 
followed  the  servant  who  met  her  at  the  door  with 
out  conscious  volition.  A  woman  going  to  execu 
tion  could  hardly  have  felt  more  indifference  to  the 
mere  accidentals  of  the  way  of  sorrow.  And  when 
a  door  was  swung  softly  open,  she  saw  no  one  in 
the  room  but  Roland.  Roland  helpless,  uncon 
scious.  Roland  even  then  crying  out  "Denasia! 
Denasia!" 

The  physician,  Mr.  Lanhearne,  and  his  daughter 
stood  by  the  fireside,  and  when  Denasia  entered 
Ada  went  rapidly  to  her  side. 

"We  are  glad  you  have  come,"  she  said  kindly. 


268  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

"You  see  how  ill  Mr.  Tresham  is.  You  are  his 
countrywoman — his  friend,  I  think?" 

"  I — am — his — wife." 

She  said  the  words  with  a  pathetic  pride,  and  Ada 
wondered  why  they  hurt  her  so  terribly.  Like  four 
swords  they  pierced  her  heart  and  cut  away  from  it 
hope  and  happiness.  She  went  back  to  her  father's 
side,  and  leaned  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  felt 
like  one  holding  despair  at  bay.  And  oh,  how 
grateful  to  her  was  the  secret  silence  of  the  night! 
Then  she  wept  as  a  little  child  weeps  who  has  lost 
its  way.  By  her  anguish  and  her  sense  of  loss  for 
ever  she  was  taught  that  Roland  had  become  nearer 
and  dearer  than  she  had  ever  suspected.  And  the 
knowledge  was  a  revelation  of  sorrow.  Her  deli 
cate  conscience  shivered  in  the  shadow  of  a  possible 
wrong  and  the  bitterness  of  the  might-have-been 
she  was  to  fight  without  ceasing. 

She  felt  no  anger  toward  Denasia,  however. 
Denasia  was  only  the  hidden  rock  on  which  her 
frail,  unknown  love-bark  had  struck  and  gone  down. 
And  she  was  constrained  to  admit  that,  so  far  as 
she  herself  was  concerned,  Roland  was  innocent. 
She  had,  indeed,  often  felt  hurt  at  his  restraint  and 
want  of  response.  In  her  pure,  simple  heart  she  had 
called  it  pride,  shyness,  indifference;  but  she  under 
stood  now  that  this  poor,  weak  soul  had  at  least  not 
lacked  honour. 

So  that  there  was  in  this  apparently  peaceful, 
comfortable  home  two  vital  conflicts  going  on:  the 
struggle  of  a  noble  soul  to  slay  love,  the  struggle 
of  unpitying  death  to  slay  life.  About  the  ninth 


DEA  TH  IS   DA  WN.  269 

day  Roland,  though  weak,  had  some  favourable 
symptoms,  and  there  were  good  hopes  of  his  recov 
ery.  He  talked  with  Denasia  at  intervals,  and 
assured  of  her  forgiveness  and  love,  slept  peace 
fully  with  his  hand  in  his  wife's  hand. 

A  few  days  later,  however,  he  appeared  to  be 
much  depressed.  His  dark,  sunken  eyes  gazed  wist 
fully  at  Mr.  Lanhearne,  and  he  asked  to  be  alone 
with  him  for  a  little  while.  "I  am  going  to  die," 
he  said,  with  a  face  full  of  vague,  melancholy  fear. 
The  look  was  so  childlike,  so  like  that  of  an  infant 
soul  afraid  of  some  perilous  path,  that  Mr.  Lanhearne 
could  not  avoid  weeping,  though  he  answered: 

"  No,  my  dear  Roland.  The  doctor  says  that  the 
worst  is  over." 

Roland  smiled  with  pleasure  at  the  fatherly  drop 
ping  of  the  formal  "  Mr. , "  but  he  reiterated  the  asser 
tion  with  a  more  decided  manner.  "I  am  going  to 
die.  Will  you  see  that  my  wife  goes  back  to 
England  to  her  father  and  mother?" 

"I  will.      Is  there  anything  else?" 

"  No.  She  knows  all  that  is  to  be  done.  Com 
fort  her  a  little  when  I  am  dead." 

"My  dear  Roland,  we  are  going  to  Florida  as 
soon  as  you  are  able. " 

"  I  am  going  to  a  country  much  farther  off.  I 
will  tell  you  how  I  know.  All  my  life  long  a  figure 
formless,  veiled,  and  like  a  shadow  has  come  to  me 
at  any  crisis.  When  I  was  striving  for  honours  at 
my  college  it  whispered,  'you  will  not  succeed.' 
When  I  went  to  my  first  business  desk  it  brought 
me  the  same  message.  The  night  before  I  sailed  for 


270  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

America  it  stood  at  my  bedside,  and  I  heard  the 
one  word,  'failure.'  This  afternoon  it  told  me,  'you 
have  come  to  the  end  of  your  life.'  Then  my  soul 
said,  'Oh,  my  enemy,  who  art  thou?'  And  there 
grew  out  of  the  dimness  the  likeness  of  a  face." 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  a  silence  painful  and 
profound.  Roland  closed  his  eyes,  and  from  under 
their  lids  stole  two  large  tears — the  last  he  would 
ever  shed.  And  Mr.  Lanhearne  was  so  awed  and 
troubled  he  could  scarcely  say: 

"A  face!     Whose  face,  then,  Roland?" 

"My  own!  My  own!"  and  he  spoke  with  that 
patience  of  accepted  doom  which,  while  it  carries 
the  warrant  of  death,  has  also  death's  resignation 
and  dignity. 

After  this  revelation  there  was  a  decided  relapse, 
and  after  a  few  more  days  of  suffering,  of  hope,  and 
despair  had  passed,  the  end  came  peacefully  from 
utter  exhaustion.  Mr.  Lanhearne  was  present,  but 
it  was  into  Denasia's  eyes  that  Roland  gazed  until 
this  sad  earth  was  lost  to  vision,  and  the  dark,  tear 
less  orbs,  once  so  full  of  light  and  love,  were  fixed 
and  dull  for  evermore. 

"It  is  all  past!  It  is  all  over!"  cried  Denasia, 
"all over,  all  over!  Oh,  Roland!  Roland!  My  dear, 
dear  love!"  and  Mr.  Lanhearne  led  her  fainting 
with  sorrow  from  the  place  of  death. 

And  in  another  room,  in  a  little  sanctuary  of  holy 
dreams  and  loving  purposes,  Ada  knelt  in  a  trans 
port  of  divine  supplication,  praying  for  the  dying, 
praying  for  the  living,  consecrating  her  own  wounded 
heart  to  the  service  of  all  women  wearing  for  any 


DEATH  IS   DAWN.  271 

reason  the  crown  of  sorrow,  or  drinking  of  the  cup 
of  Gethsemane,  or  treading  alone  the  painful  road 
which  leads  from  Calvary  to  paradise.  For  herself 
asking  only  with  a  sublime  submission — 

"  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee; 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 
That  raiseth  me  !" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

SORROW     BRINGS     US     ALL     HOME. 

"  Look  in  my  face.     My  name  is  Might-have-been: 
I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,   Farewell." 

"  Was  that  the  landmark  ? 

"  But  lo!  the  path  is  missed;  I  must  go  back 

And  thirst  to  drink  when  next  I  reach  the  spring 
Which  once  I  stained  .  .  . 

Yet  though  no  light  be  left,  nor  bird  now  sing 
As  here  I  turn,  I'll  thank  God,  hastening, 
That  the  same  goal  is  still  on  the  same  track." 

— ROSETTI. 

ROLAND  TRESHAM  was  buried  beside  his  son, 
and  the  friends  and  the  places  that  had  known 
him  knew  him  no  more.  There  were  only  strangers 
to  lay  him  in  the  grave.  His  wife  was  too  worn 
out  with  watching  and  grief  to  leave  her  bed;  his 
sister  was  far  away.  Mr.  Lanhearne  and  two  or 
three  gentlemen  whose  acquaintance  Roland  had 
made  at  the  club  of  which  Mr.  Lanhearne  was  a 
member  paid  the  last  pitiful  rites,  and  then  left  him 
alone  for  ever. 

Ada  sat  with  the  sorrowful  widow.      Her  innocent 

heart    was    greatly   troubled    lest    her    interest    in 

Roland,  though  known  only  to  herself,  had  been  an 

unintentional   wrong.     In  every  possible   way  she 

272 


SORROW  BRINGS   US  ALL   HOME.       273 

strove  to  atone  for  Roland's  happiness  in  her  home 
and  her  own  happiness  in  Roland's  presence.  When 
she  mentally  contrasted  these  conditions  with  the 
miserable  conditions  of  the  deserted  wife  and  dying 
child,  she  felt  as  if  it  would  be  impossible  to  balance 
the  unkind  and  unmerited  difference.  That  she  was 
not  specially  drawn  to  Denasia  only  forced  from 
her  a  more  generous  concern  for  the  unhappy  woman. 
And  when  death  or  sorrow  tears  from  life  the  mask 
of  daily  custom,  then,  without  regard  to  the  accidents 
of  birth,  we  behold  ourselves,  all  alike  sad  seekers 
among  the  shadows  after  light  and  peace. 

And  undoubtedly  sympathy  is  like  mercy;  it 
blesses  those  who  give  it  as  well  as  those  who  re 
ceive.  As  Ada  and  Denas  talked  of  the  great  mys 
teries  of  life  and  death,  their  souls  felt  the  thrill  of 
comradeship.  Denas  was  usually  reticent  about  her 
own  life,  yet  she  opened  her  heart  to  Ada,  and  as 
the  two  women  sat  together  the  day  after  the  funeral, 
the  poor  widow  spent  many  hours  in  excusing  the 
dead  and  in  blaming  herself. 

She  spoke  honestly  of  her  vanity,  of  her  desire  to 
get  the  better  of  Elizabeth  by  taking  her  brother 
from  her,  of  the  satisfaction  she  felt  in  mortifying 
the  pride  of  the  Burrells  and  the  Treshams — even 
of  her  impatience  and  ill-temper  with  Roland  be 
cause  he  was  not  able  to  conquer  the  weaknesses 
which  were  as  natural  to  him  as  the  blood  in  his 
body  or  the  thought  in  his  brain;  because  he  could 
not  alter  the  adverse  circumstances  which,  as  soon 
as  they  touched  American  soil,  began  to  close  around 
them. 

18 


274  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

"And  my  great  grief  is  this,"  she  cried,  wringing 
her  long,  wasted  hands:  "he  has  died  before  his 
time  and  he  has  gone  so  far  away  that  he  neither 
sees  my  repentance  nor  hears  my  words  of  remorse 
ful  sorrow." 

"Would  you  desire  the  dead  to  see  your  sorrow, 
Mrs.  Tresham?"  said  Ada.  "Sorrow  is  for  the  liv 
ing,  not  for  the  dead." 

"Oh,  it  is  not  enough  to  be  seen  by  the  living! 
I  want  the  dead  to  know  that  I  grieve!  When  I 
have  wept  on  my  mother's  breast  and  knelt  at  my 
father's  feet,  I  shall  still  long  for  poor  Roland  to 
know  that  I  am  sorry  for  the  cross  looks  and  cross 
words  and  all  the  petty  discomforts  which  drove 
him  from  me — drove  him  to  death  before  his  time; 
that  is  the  cruellest  thing  of  all." 

Mr.  Lanhearne  entered  the  room  as  she  spoke, 
and  he  sat  down  and  answered  her:  "To  die  before 
one's  time,  before  one  has  seen  and  heard,  and 
enjoyed  and  suffered  the  full  measure  of  life,  may 
seem  hard,  Mrs.  Tresham,  but  there  is  something  in 
this  respect  much  harder.  I  have  just  been  with  a 
man  who  has  lived  after  his  time.  The  grave  has 
swallowed  up  all  his  loves  and  all  his  joys,  and  he 
alone  is  left  of  his  family  and  friends.  Over  such 
lingering  lives  thick,  dark  shadows  fall,  I  can  assure 
you.  They  have  the  loneliness  of  the  grave  without 
its  quiet  sleep  and  its  freedom  from  unkindness  and 
suffering.  Let  me  advise  you,  as  soon  as  you  can 
bear  the  journey,  to  go  to  your  own  people.  It  was 
your  husband's  desire." 

"  I  know  it  was,  sir.     I  have  fought  hunger  and 


SORROW  BRINGS    US   ALL   HOME.      275 

sorrow  and  death  like  a  cat.  But  there  is  no  need 
to  continue  the  fight.  I  will  go  to  the  good  father 
and  mother  that  God  gave  me.  I  will  weep  no 
more  rebellious  tears.  I  will  surrender  myself  and 
wait  for  His  comfort.  I  am  but  a  poor,  suffering 
woman,  but  I  know  the  hand  that  has  smitten  me." 
And  Ada  bowed  her  head  and  repeated  softly: 

"  They  are  most  high  who  humblest  at  God's  knees 
Lie  loving  God,  and  trusting  though  He  smite." 

Then  they  spoke  of  the  sea-journey,  and  Denas 
wished  to  go  away  as  soon  as  possible.  "  I  shall 
get  some  money  as  soon  as  I  arrive  in  London,"  she 
said.  "  Lend  me  sufficient  to  pay  my  passage  there. " 

"  You  have  no  occasion  to  borrow  money,  Mrs. 
Tresham,"  said  Mr.  Lanhearne.  "There  is  a  sum 
due  your  husband  which  will  be  quite  sufficient  to 
meet  all  your  expenses  home.  I  will  send  a  man  to 
secure  you  a  good  berth.  Shall  it  be  for  Saturday 
next  ?" 

"I  can  go  to-morrow  very  well." 

"No,  you  cannot  go  to-morrow,  Mrs.  Tresham," 
answered  Ada.  "  You  must  have  proper  clothing  to 
travel  in.  If  you  will  permit  me,  I  will  attend  to 
this  matter  for  you  at  once." 

And  though  the  proper  clothing  was  a  very  prosaic 
comfort,  it  was  a  tangible  one  to  Denas.  She  was 
grateful  to  find  herself  clothed  in  that  modest,  som 
bre  decency  which  her  condition  claimed;  to  have 
all  the  small  proprieties  of  the  season  and  the  circum 
stances,  all  the  toilet  necessities  which  are  part  of 
the  expression  of  a  refined  nature.  For  the  poor 


276  A    SINGER    FROM   THE   SEA. 

lady  who  pitifully  lamented  the  calamity  which  had 
"  reduced  her  to  elegance  "  indicated  no  slight  de 
privation;  proper  clothing  for  the  occasions  of  life 
being  both  to  men  and  women  one  of  those  great 
decencies  demanded  by  an  austere  and  suitable  self- 
respect. 

Faithfully  did  this  good  father  and  daughter  fulfil 
to  the  last  tittle  the  demands  of  their  almost  super- 
sensitive  hearts  and  consciences,  and  if  they  sighed 
with  relief  when  the  duty  was  over,  the  sigh  only 
proved  the  duty  to  have  been  beyond  the  line  of 
self-satisfaction  and  a  real  sacrifice  to  the  claims 
of  a  common  humanity.  Mr.  Lanhearne  then  turned 
his  thoughts  gladly  toward  Florida.  He  felt  that 
the  invasion  of  so  much  strange  sorrow  into  his 
home  had  altered  its  atmosphere,  and  that  he  was 
human  enough  to  be  a  little  weary  in  well-doing. 
Ada  was  also  glad  to  escape  the  precincts  haunted 
by  the  form  and  the  voice  which  it  pained  her  con 
science  to  remember  and  pained  her  heart  to  for 
get.  So  in  a  few  more  days  the  large  brown  house 
was  closed  and  dark,  and  "  the  tender  grace  of  a 
day  that  was  dead"  was  gone  for  evermore.  The 
land  of  sunshine  was  before  them,  and  many  of  their 
friends  were  already  there  to  give  them  welcome; 
yet  Ada's  soul  kept  repeating,  with  a  ceaseless,  uncon 
trollable  monotony,  one  sad  lament — 

"  Ah,  but  alas!  for  the  smile  that  never  but  one  face  wore! 
Ah,  for  the  voice   that  has  flown   away  like  a  bird   to  an  un 
known  shore! 

Ah,  for  the   face — the   flower   of   flowers — that   blossoms  on 
earth  no  more!  " 


SORROW  BRINGS   US  ALL   HOME.       277 

She  tried  to  hush  this  inner  voice,  to  reason  it 
into  silence,  to  dull  its  aching  echo  with  song  or 
speech  or  notes  of  loftier  tones;  but  it  would  not 
be  quieted.  And  when  she  was  left  alone,  when 
there  was  no  one  near  to  comfort  or  strengthen,  a 
great  silence  fell  upon  her.  For  she  indulged  no 
stormy  sorrow ;  her  grief  was  a  still  rain  that  fer 
tilised  and  made  fragrant  her  higher  self.  In  her 
maiden  heart  she  had  had  a  dream  of  being  crowned 
with  bride-flowers,  and  lo!  it  was  rue,  and  thyme 
gone  to  seed,  and  dead  primroses  that  garlanded  her 
sad,  unspoken  love.  But  she  wore  them  with  a 
sweet,  brave  submission,  not  affecting  to  disbelieve 
that  time  would  surely  heal  love's  aching  pain.  For 
she  knew  that  goodness  was  omnipotent  to  save  and 
to  comfort. 

In  the  mean  time,  as  the  Lanhearnes  sailed  south 
ward  Denas  sailed  eastward,  and  in  less  than  a 
couple  of  weeks  half  the  circumference  of  the  world 
was  between  the  lives  so  strangely  and  sorrowfully 
brought  together.  Denas  landed  in  Liverpool  early 
in  the  morning,  and  without  delay  went  to  London. 
She  had  business  with  Elizabeth,  and  she  felt  con 
strained  and  restless  until  it  should  be  accomplished. 
She  hesitated  about  going  to  the  house  in  which  she 
had  spent  with  Roland  so  many  happy  and  sorrowful 
days,  but  when  she  entered  the  cab  the  direction  to 
it  sprang  naturally  from  her  lips. 

And  there  was  already  in  her  heart  that  tender 
fear  that  she  might  forget,  the  fear  that  all  who 
have  loved  and  lost  have  trembled  to  recognise,  the 
fact  that  her  sorrow  might  have  an  end,  that  she 


27*  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

might  learn  to  dispense  with  what  was  once  her 
life,  that  a  little  vulgar  existence  with  its  stated 
meals  and  regular  duties  and  petty  pleasures  would 
ever  fill  the  void  in  her  love  and  life  made  by 
Roland's  death. 

So  she  tried,  in  the  very  place  of  her  sweet  bride 
memories,  to  bring  back  the  first  passion  of  her 
widowed  grief.  She  tried  to  fill  the  empty  chair 
with  Roland's  familiar  form  and  the  silent  space 
with  his  happy  voice.  Alas!  other  thoughts  would 
intrude;  considerations  about  Elizabeth's  attitude, 
about  her  home,  about  her  future.  For  she  knew 
that  this  part  of  her  life  was  finished;  that  nothing 
could  ever  bring  back  its  conditions.  They  had 
been  absolutely  barren  conditions.  Her  duties  as  a 
wife  and  a  mother  were  over.  Her  career  as  a 
singer  was  over.  No  single  claim  of  friendship  or 
interest  from  its  past  bound  her.  When  she  had 
seen  Elizabeth  these  last  years  of  her  being  and 
doing  would  be  a  shut  book.  Nothing  but  her 
change  of  name  and,  perhaps,  a  little  money  would 
remain  to  testify  that  Denas  Penelles  had  ever  been 
Denasia  Tresham. 

Do  as  she  would,  she  could  not  keep  these  thoughts 
apart  from  her  memories  of  her  lover  and  her  hus 
band.  She  arrested  her  mind  continually  and  bade 
herself  remember  the  days  of  her  gay  bridal,  or  else 
those  two  lonely  graves  far  beyond  the  western  sea; 
and  then,  ere  she  was  aware,  her  memories  of  the 
past  had  become  speculations  about  the  future.  And 
she  was  abashed  by  this  arid,  incurable  egotism  in 


SORROW  BRINGS   US  ALL   HOME.       279 

the  most  secret  place  of  her  soul.  She  felt  it  mak 
ing  itself  known  continually  in  her  hard  determina 
tion  to  make  the  best  of  things;  she  knew  that  it 
was  this  feeling  which  was  determined  to  close  the 
death  chamber, to  deny  all  torturing  memories;  which 
said,  in  effect,  "what  is  finished  is  finished,  and  the 
dead  are  dead." 

But  the  conflict  wearied  her  almost  to  insensi 
bility.  She  was  also  physically  exhausted  by  travel, 
and  the  next  day  she  slept  profoundly  until  nearly 
the  noon  hour.  It  had  been  her  intention  to  see 
Elizabeth  in  the  morning,  and  she  was  provoked  at 
her  own  remissness,  for  what  she  feared  in  reality 
happened — Elizabeth  was  out  driving  when  she 
reached  her  residence.  The  porter  thought  it  would 
be  six  o'clock  ere  she  could  receive  any  visitor, 
"business  or  no  business." 

Denas  said  she  would  call  at  six  o'clock,  and 
charged  the  man  to  tell  his  mistress  so. 

But  the  visit  and  the  engagement  passed  from  the 
servant's  mind.  In  fact,  he  had,  as  he  claimed,  a 
very  genteel  mind.  Callers  who  came  in  a  common 
cab  did  not  find  an  entry  into  it.  Elizabeth  returned 
in  due  season  from  her  drive,  drank  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  then  made  her  evening  toilet.  For  Lord  Sud 
leigh  was  to  dine  with  her,  and  Lord  Sudleigh  was 
the  most  important  person  in  Elizabeth's  life.  It 
was  her  intention,  as  soon  as  she  had  paid  the  last 
tittle  of  mint,  anise,  and  cummin  to  Mr.  Burrell's 
memory,  to  become  Lady  Sudleigh.  Everyone  said 
it  was  a  most  proper  alliance,  the  proposed  bride 


28o  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

having  money  and  beauty  and  the  bridegroom-elect 
birth,  political  influence,  and  quite  as  much  love  as 
was  necessary  to  such  a  matrimonial  contract. 

Elizabeth,  however,  in  spite  of  her  pleasant  pros 
pect  for  the  evening,  was  in  a  bad  temper.  The 
bishop's  wife  had  snubbed  her  in  the  drive,  and  her 
dressmaker  had  disappointed  her  in  a  new  costume. 
The  March  wind  also  had  reddened  her  face,  and 
perhaps  she  had  a  premonition  of  trouble,  which  she 
did  not  care  to  investigate.  When  informed  that 
there  was  a  lady  waiting  to  see  her  on  important 
business,  she  simply  elected  to  let  her  wait  until 
her  toilet  was  finished.  She  had  a  conviction  that 
it  was  some  officious  patroness  on  a  charity  mission 
— someone  who  wanted  money  for  the  good  of  other 
people.  And  as  there  are  times  when  we  all  feel 
the  claims  of  charity  to  be  an  unwarrantable  im 
position,  so  Elizabeth,  blown-about,  sun-browned, 
snubbed,  disappointed,  and  anxious  about  her  lover, 
was  not,  on  this  particular  occasion,  more  to  blame 
for  want  of  courtesy  than  many  others  have  been. 

Finally  she  descended  to  the  drawing-room  and 
was  ready  to  receive  her  visitor.  There  was  a  very 
large  mirror  in  the  room,  and  pending  her  entrance 
Elizabeth  stood  before  it  noticing  the  set  and  flow 
of  her  black  lace  dress,  its  heliotrope  ribbons,  and 
the  sparkle  of  the  hidden  jets  upon  the  bodice. 
Some  heliotrope  blossoms  were  in  her  breast,  and 
her  hands  were  covered  with  gloves  of  the  same  deli 
cate  colour.  Denas  saw  her  thus;  saw  her  reflection 
in  the  glass  before  she  turned  to  confront  her. 

For  a  moment  Elizabeth  was  puzzled.     The  white 


SORROW  BRINGS  US  ALL   HOME.       281 

face  amid  its  sombre,  heavy  draperies  had  a  familiar 
ity  she  strove  to  name,  but  could  not.  But  as  De- 
nasia  came  forward,  some  trick  of  head-carriage  or 
of  walking  revealed  her  personality,  and  Elizabeth 
cried  out  in  a  kind  of  angry  amazement: 

"Denas!     You  here?" 

"  I  am  no  more  Denas  to  you  than  you  are  Eliza 
beth  to  me." 

"Well,  then,  Mrs.  Tresham!  And  pray  where  is 
my  brother?" 

"Dead." 

"Dead?  dead?  Impossible!  And  if  so,  it  is 
your  fault,  I  know  it  is!  I  had  a  letter  from  him — 
the  last  letter — he  said  he  was  coming  to  me." 

She  was  frightfully  pale;  she  staggered  to  a  sofa, 
sat  down,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  gloved 
hands.  Denasia  stood  by  a  table  watching  her 
emotion  and  half-doubting  its  genuineness.  A 
silence  followed,  so  deep  and  long  that  Elizabeth 
could  not  endure  it.  She  stood  up  and  looked  at 
Denasia,  reproach  and  accusation  in  every  tone  and 
attitude.  "Where  did  he  die?"  she  asked. 

"In  New  York." 

"Of  what  did  he  die?" 

"  Of  pneumonia." 

"  It  was  your  fault,  I  am  sure  of  it.  Your  fault 
in  some  way.  My  poor  Roland!  He  had  left 
you,  I  know  that;  and  I  hoped  everything  for  his 
future." 

"  He  had  come  back  to  me.  He  loved  me  better 
than  ever.  He  died  in  my  arms — died  adoring  me. 
His  last  work  on  earth  was  to  <nve  me  this  list  of 


282  A    SINGER    FROM   THE  SEA. 

property,  which  I  shall  require  you  either  to  render 
back  or  to  buy  from  me." 

Elizabeth  knew  well  what  was  wanted,  and  her 
whole  soul  was  in  arms  at  the  demand.  Yet  it  was  a 
perfectly  just  one.  By  his  father's  will  Roland 
had  been  left  certain  pieces  of  valuable  personal 
property:  family  portraits  and  plate,  two  splendid 
cabinets,  old  china,  Chinese  and  Japanese  carvings, 
many  fine  paintings,  antique  chairs,  etc.,  etc.,  the 
whole  being  property  which  had  either  been  long 
in  the  Tresham  family  or  endeared  to  it  by  special 
causes,  and  therefore  left  personally  to  Roland  as 
the  representative  of  the  Treshams.  At  the  break 
up  of  the  Tresham  home  after  his  father's  death, 
Roland  had  been  glad  to  leave  these  treasures  in 
Elizabeth's  care,  nor  in  his  wandering  life  had  the 
idea  of  claiming  them  ever  come  to  him.  As  for 
their  sale,  that  would  have  been  an  indignity  to  his 
ancestors  below  the  contemplation  of  Roland. 

Fortunately  Mr.  Tresham's  lawyer  had  insisted 
upon  Mrs.  Burrell  giving  Roland  a  list  of  the  articles 
left  in  her  charge  and  an  acknowledgment  of 
Roland's  right  to  them.  "  Life  is  so  queer  and  has 
so  many  queer  turns,"  he  said,  "that  nothing  can  be 
left  to  likelihoods.  Mrs.  Burrell  is  not  likely  to 
die,  but  she  may  do  so ;  and  then  there  may  be  a  new 
Mrs.  Burrell  who  may  make  trouble,  and  I  can  con 
ceive  of  many  other  complications  which  would  ren 
der  nugatory  the  intentions  of  the  late  Mr.  Tresham. 
The  property  must,  therefore,  be  set  behind  the  bul 
wark  of  the  law."  Elizabeth  herself  had  acknowl 
edged  this  danger,  and  she  had  done  all  that  was 


SORROW  SRINGS   US  ALL   HOME.       283 

required  of  her  in  order  to  keep  the  Tresham  family 
treasures  within  the  keeping  of  the  Treshams. 

She  was  now  confronted  with  her  own  acknowl 
edgment  and  agreement,  or  at  least  with  a  copy  of 
it,  and  she  was  well  aware  that  it  would  be  the 
greatest  folly  to  deny  the  claim  of  Roland's  wife. 
But  the  idea  of  robbing  her  beautiful,  home  for 
Denasia  was  very  bitter  to  her.  She  glanced  around 
the  room  and  imagined  the  precious  cabinets  and 
china,  the  curious  carvings  and  fine  paintings  taken 
away,  and  then  the  alternative,  the  money  she  would 
have  to  pay  to  Denasia  if  she  retained  them,  came 
with  equal  force  and  clearness  to  her  intelligence. 

"Mrs.  Tresham,  "she  said  in  a  conciliating  voice, 
"these  objects  can  be  of  no  value  to  you." 

"Roland  told  me  they  were  worth  at  least  two 
thousand  pounds,  perhaps  more.  There  is  a  picture 
of  Turner's,  which  of " 

"  What  do  you  know  about  Turner  ?  And  can  you 
really  entertain  the  thought  of  selling  things  so 
precious  to  our  family?" 

"  Roland  wished  you  to  buy  them.  If  you  do  not 
value  them  sufficiently  to  do  so,  why  should  I  keep 
them  ?  In  my  father's  cottage  they  would  be  absurd. " 

"Your  father's  cottage?  You  are  laughing  at 
me!" 

"  I  am  too  sorrowful  a  woman  to  laugh.  A  few 
weeks  ago,  if  I  had  had  only  one  of  these  pictures  I 
would  have  sold  it  for  a  mouthful  of  bread — for  a 
little  coal  to  warm  myself;  oh,  my  God!  for  medi 
cine  to  save  my  child's  life  or  to  ease  his  passage 
to  the  grave." 


284  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

"  I  had  forgotten  the  child.     Where  is  he?" 

"  By  his  father's  side." 

"That  is  well  and  best,  doubtless." 

"It  is  not  well  and  best.  What  do  you  know? 
You  have  never  been  a  mother.  God  never  gave 
you  such  sorrowful  grace." 

"We  will  return  to  the  list,  if  you  please.  What 
do  you  propose  to  do  ?" 

"  I  have  spoken  to  a  man  in  Baker  Street  who 
deals  in  such  things.  If  you  wish  to  buy  them  and 
will  pay  their  fair  value  I  will  sell  them  to  you, 
because  Roland  desired  you  to  have  them.  If  you 
do  not  wish  to  buy  them  or  will  not  pay  a  fair 
price  I  will  remove  them  to  Baker  Street.  There 
are  others  who  will  know  their  value." 

"  I  advanced  Roland  a  great  deal  of  money." 

"  You  gave  him  it.  You  demanded  and  accepted 
his  thanks.  The  sums  all  told  would  not  pay  for  the 
use  of  the  property." 

"  I  shall  do  right,  of  course.  Bring  the  man  you 
have  spoken  of  to-morrow  afternoon,  and  I  also 
will  have  here  an  expert  of  the  same  kind.  I  will 
pay  you  whatever  they  decide  is  a  proper  sum." 

"That  will  satisfy  me." 

"  I  am  sorry  affairs  have  come  to  this  point  between 
us.  I  tried  to  be  kind  to  you.  I  think  you  have 
been  very  ungrateful." 

"You  were  kind  only  to  yourself.  You  never 
were  a  favourite  in  St.  Penfer.  Other  ladies  did 
not  often  call  upon  you.  In  me  you  had  a  com 
panionship  which  you  could  control,  you  had 
your  sewing  done  fpr  next  to  nothing,  you  had  the 


SORROW  BRINGS  US  ALL   HOME.       285 

nevvs  of  the  town  brought  to  you.  You  played  upon 
my  restless  disposition,  my  love  of  fine  clothing, 
my  ambition  to  be  some  one  greater  than  Denas 
Penelles,  and  as  soon  as  good  fortune  came  to  you 
and  you  had  everything  you  desired,  you  found  me  a 
bore,  a  claimant  on  your  sense  of  justice  which  you 
did  not  like  to  meet.  Understand  that  the  fact  of 
wearing  silk  and  jewelry  does  not  give  you  the 
right  to  take  up  an  immortal  soul  and  play  with  it 
or  cast  it  aside  as  you  find  it  convenient.  I  owe 
you  the  deepest  grudge.  You  made  me  dissatisfied 
with  my  own  life,  you  showed  me  the  pleasant  vistas 
of  a  different  life,  and  when  I  hoped  to  enter  with 
you,  I  found  myself  outside  and  the  door  shut  in 
my  face.  You  have  always  tried  to  make  Roland 
dissatisfied  with  me.  You  insinuated,  you  deplored, 
in  every  letter  to  him.  You  stabbed  while  you 
pretended  to  kiss  me.  I  found  you  out  long  ago. 
Everyone  finds  you  out.  You  never  had  a  friend. 
You  never  will  have  one." 

She  spoke  with  that  pitiless  scorn  which  is  the 
language  of  suppressed  passion.  Elizabeth  only 
lifted  her  eyebrows  and  turned  away  from  her. 
And  Denasia  knew  that  she  had  made  a  mistake, 
and  yet  she  did  not  regret  it.  There  are  times  when 
it  is  a  relief  to  be  angry,  whether  we  do  well  to  be 
so  or  not;  when  to  lose  the  temper  is  better  than  to 
keep  it.  Of  course  there  are  great  and  beautiful 
souls  with  whom  nothing  turns  to  bitterness,  but 
the  soul  of  Denasia  was  not  one  of  these.  It  had 
been  born  ready  to  feel  and  ready  to  speak,  and 
regarded  it  as  something  of  a  virtue  to  do  so. 


286  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

She  left  Elizabeth's  house  in  a  very  unhappy 
mood,  and  at  a  rapid  walk  proceeded  to  her  lodging 
in  Bloomsbury.  She  would  have  felt  the  confine 
ment  of  a  cab  to  be  intolerable,  but  it  was  a  relief 
to  set  her  personality  against  the  friction  of  a  mill 
ion  of  encompassing  wills.  And  in  a  short  time 
she  succumbed  to  that  condition  of  electricity  which 
they  evolve,  and  permitted  herself  to  be  moved  by 
it  without  considering  her  steps. 

At  length  she  was  hungry,  and  she  turned  into  a 
place  of  refreshment  and  ate  with  more  healthy 
desire  than  she  had  felt  for  many  months,  and  then 
the  restless,  fretting  creature  within  was  pacified, 
and  she  resolved  to  walk  quietly  to  her  room  and 
sleep  before  she  suffered  herself  to  think  any  more. 
But  as  she  was  following  out  this  plan  she  came  to 
a  famous  theatre,  and  the  name  at  the  entrance 
attracted  her.  "  I  will  be  my  own  judge,"  she  said. 
"  I  will  see,  and  hear,  and  be  more  unmerciful  to 
myself  than  any  other  could  be." 

So  she  entered  the  place  and  sat  throughout  three 
scenes.  She  did  not  wait  for  the  final  act.  There 
was  no  necessity.  She  had  arrived  at  her  verdict. 
It  was  in  her  eyes  and  attitude  when  she  left  the 
building,  but  she  gave  it  no  voice  until  she  sat 
weary  and  sad  before  the  glimmering  fire  in  her 
room. 

"  I  could  be  Queen  of  England  as  easily  as  I  could 
be  a  prima  donna,"  she  said  mournfully.  "There 
was  perhaps  a  time — perhaps — perhaps,  when  youth 
and  beauty  and  love  could  have  helped  me,  but  that 
time  has  gone  for  ever." 


SORROW   BRINGS   US   ALL    HOME.       287 

She  said  the  words  slowly,  and  the  weight  of 
despair  was  on  each  one.  For  she  realised  that  in 
her  case  effort  had  brought  forth  no  lasting  fruit 
and  that  endurance  had  been  without  avail,  and  she 
was  exceedingly  sorrowful.  For  there  is  a  singular 
vitality  in  the  idea  of  public  singing  or  acting 
when  once  it  has  taken  root  in  any  nature,  and 
Denasia  had  been  subject  that  night  to  one  of  its 
periods  of  revival.  She  had  told  herself  that  "she 
would  probably  have  a  thousand  pounds;  that  she 
could  goto  Italy  and  pay  for  the  best  teachers;  that 
it  would  please  Roland  if  he  knew,  if  he  remem 
bered,  for  her  to  do  so;  that  it  would  annoy  Eliza 
beth  in  many  ways  if  she  became  a  singer;  that 
she  would  show  the  world  it  was  possible  to  sing 
and  act  and  yet  be  in  every  respect  womanly,  pure- 
hearted,  and  blameless  before  God  and  man." 

These  and  many  such  ideas  had  filled  her  mind 
at  intervals  all  the  way  across  the  Atlantic,  and  her 
passionate  renunciation  of  the  stage,  made  that  mis 
erable  day  when  Roland  deserted  her,  began  to  lose 
its  reasonableness  and  therefore  its  sense  of  obliga 
tion.  After  her  interview  with  Elizabeth,  the  ques 
tion  of  money  to  carry  out  such  intentions  was  prac' 
tically  settled,  and  she  had,  therefore,  only  to  arrive 
at  a  positive  personal  conclusion.  Once  or  twice 
in  her  public  career  she  had  received  what  her  heart 
told  her  was  a  just  criticism.  It  had  not  been  a 
very  flattering  one,  and  Roland  had  passionately 
denied  its  justice.  But  she  felt  that  the  hour  had 
now  come  when  she  must  have  the  truth  and  accept 
the  truth. 


288  A    SINGER    FROM   THE  SEA. 

So  she  had  tested  herself  by  the  natural  and  ac 
quired  abilities  of  the  greatest  singer  of  the  day. 
It  was,  perhaps,  a  pitiless  standard, but  she  felt  that 
her  safety  demanded  its  extremity.  Her  compari 
sons  made  her  burn  with  shame  at  her  own  short 
comings.  She  wondered  how  Roland  could  have 
been  so  deceived,  how  he  could  have  hoped  or  be 
lieved  in  her  at  all.  She  forgot  that  circumstances 
had  quite  altered  Roland's  first  intentions,  and  that 
in  following  out  his  secondary  ones  less  distinctive 
talent  was  sufficient.  On  their  marriage  if  he  had 
taken  her,  as  he  proposed,  to  Italy;  if  the  three  last 
restless,  miserable  years  had  been  spent  in  repose,  in 
a  favourable  climate  under  fine  instructors,  with  a 
happy,  satisfied,  hopeful  affection  to  stimulate  and 
support  her  ambition — ah,  then  all  of  Roland's 
hopes  might  have  been  fulfilled.  But  lack  of  patience 
as  much  as  lack  of  money  had  brought  final  failure. 
The  blossom  had  been  gathered  and  worn  with  but 
small  Mat,  and  there  was  now  no  hope  of  fruit. 

Full  of  such  sombre  thoughts,  she  turned  up  the 
lights  and  looked  at  herself.  Gone  was  her  radiant 
beauty,  her  splendid  youth;  gone  also  her  buoyant 
spirit  and  invincible  courage.  That  night  as  she 
sat  there  alone  she  buried  for  ever  this  hope  of  a 
life  for  which  she  was  not  destined.  Yet  it  was 
while  sitting  on  that  very  hearth  together  Roland 
and  she  had  felt  the  joy  of  her  first  triumph  at 
Willis  Hall.  She  could  remember  every  incident 
of  her  return  home  the  night  of  her  brilliant  dttut. 
How  Roland  had  praised  her  and  loved  her.  Neither 
of  them  then  thought  the  temporary  success  to  be  the 


SORROW  BRINGS   US   ALL   HOME.       289 

first  downward  step  from  their  original  grander 
ideal ;  the  first  step  toward  a  miserable  failure. 
Now  it  was  clear  enough.  Alas!  alas!  Why  can 
not  joy,  as  well  as  sorrow,  open  the  eyes?  Why 
are  they  only  washed  clear-seeing  with  tears? 

When  the  hopeless  ceremony  was  over  and  she 
had  fully  accepted  the  lot  before  her,  she  rose  and 
with  tear-filled  eyes  looked  around  the  place  of  her 
renunciation.  She  felt  as  if  her  husband  ought  to 
have  some  consciousness  of  her  disappointment;  as 
if  the  longing  in  her  heart  should  bring  him  to  her 
side.  Where  was  he?  Where  had  he  gone  to? 
"Roland!  Roland!"  she  whispered,  and  the  silence 
beat  upon  her  heart  like  the  blows  of  a  hammer. 
Was  he  present?  Did  he  hear  her?  She  felt  until 
she  reached  the  very  rim  of  conscious  feeling,  and 
then?  Alas!  nothing  but  a  mighty  mystery  loom 
ing  beyond. 

Weary  and  exhausted  with  emotion,  she  lay  down 
and  slept,  and  in  the  morning  the  courage  born  of 
a  resolved  mind  was  with  her.  When  she  had  fin 
ished  her  business  with  Elizabeth,  then  there  was  her 
father  and  her  mother  and  her  real  life  again.  She 
must  go  back  and  take  it  up  just  where  she  had 
thrown  it  down.  And  this  humiliating  duty  was  all 
that  her  own  way  had  brought  her.  Never  again 
would  she  take  her  destiny  out  of  the  keeping  of  the 
good  God  who  orders  all  things  well.  On  this 
resolution  she  stayed  her  heart,  and  somehow  in  her 
sleep  there  had  come  to  her  a  conviction  that  the 
time  of  smiles  would  surely  come  back  to  her  once 
more.  For  God  giveth  His  children  in  their  sleep, 
19 


290  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

and  the  sorrowful  wake  up  comforted,  and  the  weak 
strong,  because  some  angel  has  visited  them  and 
"they  knew  it  not." 

Elizabeth  was  quite  prepared  for  her  visitor. 
She  was,  indeed,  anxious  to  get  the  affair  settled  and 
to  dismiss  Denasia  from  her  life  for  ever.  Her  law 
yer  and  appraiser  were  busy  when  Denasia  arrived, 
and  without  ceremony  each  article  specified  in 
Roland's  list  was  examined  and  valued.  Eliza 
beth  offered  her  sister-in-law  no  courtesy;  she  barely 
bowed  in  response  to  her  greeting,  and  there  was  a 
final  very  severe  struggle  as  to  values.  Mrs.  Burrell 
had  certainly  hoped  to  satisfy  Denasia  with  a  thou 
sand  pounds,  but  the  official  adjustment  was  sixteen 
hundred  pounds,  and  for  this  sum  Roland's  widow, 
who  was  irritated  by  her  sister-in-law's  evident  scorn 
and  dislike,  stubbornly  stood  firm. 

It  is  probable  that  Elizabeth  would  also  have 
turned  stubborn  and  have  suffered  the  articles  to  go 
to  the  auction-room  had  not  her  personal  pride  and 
interests  demanded  the  sacrifice.  But  she  had 
already  introduced  Lord  Sudleigh  to  these  family 
treasures,  and  she  could  not  endure  to  go  to  Sudleigh 
Castle  and  take  with  her  no  heirlooms  to  be  surety 
for  her  respectability.  So  that,  after  all,  Denasia 
won  her  rights  easily,  because  a  man  whom  she  had 
never  seen  and  never  even  heard  of  pleaded  her 
case  for  her.  But  she  had  no  exceptional  favour. 
It  is  the  people  whom  we  do  not  know  that  are  often 
our  helpers.  It  is  the  people  who  seem  to  have  no 
possible  connection  with  us  that  are  pften,  the  tools, 
used  by  fate  for  our  fortune, 


SORROW  BRINGS  US  ALL   HOME.       291 

When  the  transaction  was  fully  over  and  Denasia 
had  Elizabeth's  cheque  in  her  pocket  the  day  was 
nearly  over.  The  business  agents  left  hurriedly  and 
Denasia  was  going  with  them,  when  Elizabeth  said: 
"  Return  a  moment,  if  you  please,  Mrs.  Tresham.  I 
have  heard  nothing  from  you  about  my  brother.  I 
think  it  is  your  duty  to  give  me  some  information. 
I  am  very  miserable, "  and  she  sat  down  and  covered 
her  face.  Her  sobs,  hardly  restrained,  touched 
Denasia.  She  was  sorry  for  the  weeping  woman, 
for  she  knew  that  if  Elizabeth  had  loved  any  human 
creature  truly  and  unselfishly,  it  was  her  brother 
Roland. 

"What  can  I  tell  you?"  she  asked. 

"  Something  to  comfort  me,  if  you  are  not  utterly 
heartless.  Had  he  doctors?  help?  comforts  of  any 
kind?" 

"  He  had  everything  that  money  and  love  could 
procure.  He  died  in  Mr.  Lanhearne's  house.  I 
was  at  his  side.  Whatever  could  be  done  by  human 
skill  to  save  his  life  was  done." 

"  Did  he  name  me  often  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  never  said  a  word — never  would  have 
done — you  were  going  away  without  telling  me. 
How  could  you  be  so  cruel  ?" 

"  It  was  wrong.  I  should  have  told  you.  He 
spoke  often  about  you.  In  his  delirium  he  believed 
himself  with  you.  He  called  your  name  three 
times  just  before  he  died;  it  was  only  a  whisper 
then,  he  was  so  weak." 

Elizabeth  wept  bitterly,  and  Denasia,  moved  by 


29*  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

many  memories,  could  not  watch  her  unmoved. 
After  a  wretched  pause  she  said: 

"Good-bye!  You  are  Roland's  sister  and  he 
loved  you.  So  then  I  cannot  really  hate  you. 
I  forgive  you  all." 

But  Elizabeth  did  not  answer.  The  loss  of  her 
brother,  the  loss  of  her  money — she  was  feeling 
that  this  woman  had  been  the  cause  of  all  her  sor 
rows.  Grief  and  anger  swelled  within  her  heart; 
she  felt  it  to  be  an  intolerable  wrong  to  be  forgiven. 
She  was  silent  until  Denasia  was  closing  the  door, 
then  she  rose  hastily  and  followed  her. 

"Go!"  she  cried,  "and  never  cross  my  path 
again.  You  have  brought  me  nothing  but  misery." 

"It  is  quite  just  that  I  should  bring  you  misery. 
Remember,  now,  that  if  you  do  a  wrong  you  will 
have  to  pay  the  price  of  it." 

Trembling  with  anger  and  emotion,  she  clasped 
her  purse  tightly  and  called  a  cab  to  take  her  to 
her  lodging.  The  money  was  money,  at  any  rate. 
A  poor  exchange  for  love,  certainly,  but  still  Ro 
land's  last  gift  to  her.  It  proved  that  in  his  dying 
hours  he  loved  her  best  of  all.  He  had  put  his 
family  pride  beneath  her  feet.  He  had  put  his 
sister's  interest  second  to  her  interest.  She  felt 
that  every  pound  represented  to  her  so  much  of 
Roland's  consideration  and  affection.  It  was,  too, 
a  large  sum  of  money.  It  made  her  in  her  own 
station  a  very  rich  woman.  If  she  put  it  in  the  St. 
Penfer  bank  it  would  insure  her  a  great  deal  of 
respect.  That  was  one  side  of  the  question.  The 
other  was  less  satisfactory.  People  would  specu- 


SORROW  BRINGS   US  ALL   HOME.       293 

late  as  to  how  she  had  become  possessed  of  such  a 
sum.  Many  would  not  scruple  to  say,  "  It  was  sin 
ful  money,  won  in  the  devil's  service."  All  who 
wished  to  be  unkind  to  her  could  find  in  it  an  oc 
casion  for  hard  sayings.  In  small  communities 
everything  but  prosperity  is  forgiven;  that  is  never 
really  forgiven  to  anyone;  and  though  Denasia 
did  not  find  words  for  this  feeling,  she  was  aware 
of  it,  because  she  was  desirous  to  avoid  unnecessary 
ill-will. 

She  sat  with  the  cheque  in  her  hand  a  long  time, 
considering  what  to  do  with  it.  Her  natural  van 
ity  and  pride,  her  sense  of  superior  intelligence, 
education,  travel,  and  experience  urged  her  to  take 
whatever  good  it  might  bring  her.  And  she  went 
to  sleep  resolving  to  do  so.  But  she  awoke  in  the 
midnight  with  a  strange  sense  of  humiliation.  In 
that  time  of  questions  she  was  troubled  by  soul- 
inquiries  that  came  one  upon  another  close  as  the 
blows  of  a  lash.  She  was  then  shocked  at  the  in 
tentions  with  which  she  had  fallen  asleep.  The  lit 
tle  vanities,  and  condescensions,  and  generosities 
which  she  had  planned  for  her  own  glory — how  con 
temptible  they  appeared!  And  in  the  darkness  she 
could  see  their  certain  end — envy  and  hatred  for 
herself  and  dissatisfaction  and  loss  of  friends  for 
her  father  and  mother.  Had  she  not  already  given 
them  sorrow  enough  ? 

Her  right  course  was  then  clear  as  a  band  of 
light.  She  would  deposit  the  money  at  interest  in 
a  London  bank.  She  would  say  nothing  at  all 
about  its  possession,  Before  leaving  for  St.  Penfer 


294  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

she  would  buy  a  couple  of  printed  gowns,  such 
as  would  not  be  incongruous  with  her  surroundings. 
She  would  go  back  to  her  home  and  village  as  empty- 
handed  as  she  left  them — a  beggar,  even,  for  a  little 
love  and  sympathy,  for  toleration  for  her  wander 
ings,  for  forgiveness  for  those  deeds  by  which  she 
had  wounded  the  consciences  and  self-respect  of  her 
own  people  and  her  own  caste. 

This  determination  awoke  with  her  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  she  followed  it  out  literally.  The  presents 
she  had  resolved  to  buy  in  order  to  get  herself  a 
little  favour  were  put  out  of  consideration.  She  pur 
chased  only  a  few  plain  garments  for  her  own  every 
day  wearing.  She  left  her  money  with  strangers 
who  attached  no  importance  to  it;  and,  with  one 
small  American  trunk  holding  easily  all  her  pos 
sessions,  she  turned  her  face  once  more  to  the  little 
fishing  village  of  St.  Penfer  by  the  Sea. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

ONLY    FRIENDS. 

"  Stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest, 
Home-keeping  hearts  are  happiest; 
For  those  that  wander  they  know  not  where 
Are  full  of  trouble  and  full  of  care — 
To  stay  at  home  is  best." 

— SONG. 

"...  Those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which  be  they  what  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day; 
Are  yet  a  master-sight  of  all  our  seeing." 

— WORDSWORTH. 

ONLY  those  who  have  experienced  the  sensation 
can  tell  how  strange  and  sad  is  the  feeling 
with  which  the  soul  turns  away  from  a  destiny  accom 
plished.  When  Denas  had  deposited  her  money  in 
the  Clydesdale  Bank  and  made  the  few  purchases 
she  thought  proper  and  prudent,  she  felt  that  one 
room  of  the  house  of  life  was  barred  forever  against 
her  return  to  it. 

For  a  few  years  her  experiences  had  been  strangely 

interwoven  with  those  of  the  Treshams.      To  what 

purpose?     Why  had  they  been  so?     As  far  as  this 

existence  was  concerned,  it  seemed  a  relationship 

295 


296  A    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

that  might  well  have  been  omitted.  But  who  can 
tell  what  circumstances  went  before  it  or  what  were 
to  follow  ?  For  all  human  beings  leave  behind  them 
as  they  go  through  life  a  train  of  events  which  are 
due  either  to  impulses  originating  in  a  previous  exist 
ence  or  are  the  seeds  of  events  which  are  to  be  per 
fected  in  a  future  one;  what  we  sow,  that  we  shall 
surely  reap. 

Leaving  London,  such  thoughts  of  something 
final,  at  least  as  far  as  this  probation  was  concerned, 
greatly  depressed  Denas.  "  Never  more,  never 
more,"  was  the  monotonous  refrain  that  sprang  from 
her  soul  to  her  lips.  But  it  is  a  wise  provision  of  the 
Merciful  One  that  the  past,  in  a  healthy  mind,  v-ery 
soon  loses  its  charm,  and  the  things  that  are  present 
take  the  first  place. 

"I  cannot  bring  anything  back.  I  do  not  think 
I  would  bring  anything  back  if  I  could.  I  have 
been  very  unhappy  and  restless  in  the  past.  Every 
pleasure  I  had  was  tithed  by  sorrow.  Roland  loved 
me,  but  I  brought  him  only  disappointment.  I  loved 
Roland,  and  yet  all  my  efforts  to  make  him  happy 
were  failures.  Roland  has  been  taken  from  me. 
Our  child  has  been  taken  away  from  me.  Elizabeth 
I  have  put  away — death  could  not  sever  us  more 
effectually.  I  am  going  back  to  my  own  people  and 
my  own  life,  and  I  pray  God  to  give  me  a  contented 
heart  in  it." 

These  were  the  colour  of  her  reflections  as  the 
train  bore  her  swiftly  to  the  fortune  of  her  future 
years.  She  had  no  enthusiasm  about  them.  She 
thought  she  knew  all  the  possibilities  they  kept. 


ONLY  FRIENDS.  297 

She  looked  for  no  extraordinary  thing,  for  no  special 
favour  to  brighten  their  uniform  ocupations  and 
simple  pleasures.  She  had  taken  the  first  train 
she  could,  without  considering  the  time  of  its  arri 
val  in  St.  Penfer.  She  told  herself  that  there 
would  be  a  certain  amount  of  gossip  about  her  re 
turn,  and  that  it  could  not  be  avoided  by  either  a 
public  or  private  arrival.  Still,  she  was  glad  when 
the  sun  set  and  the  shadows  of  the  night  were 
stretched  out — glad  that  the  moon  was  too  young  to 
give  much  light,  and  that  it  was  quite  nine  o'clock 
when  the  St.  Penfer  station  was  reached. 

A  few  people  were  on  the  platform,  but  none  of 
them  were  thinking  of  Mrs.  Tresham,  and  the  woman 
so  simply  dressed  and  veiled  in  black  made  no  im 
pression  on  anyone.  She  left  her  trunk  \n  the  bag 
gage-room  and  went  by  the  familiar  road  down  the 
cliff-breast.  It  had  been  raining,  of  course,  and 
the  ground  was  heavy  and  wet;  but  the  sky  was 
clear,  and  the  half-moon  made  a  half-twilight  among 
the  bare  branches  and  shed  a  faint  bar  of  light 
across  the  ocean. 

At  the  last  reach  she  stood  still  a  moment  and 
looked  at  the  clustered  cottages  and  the  boats  sway 
ing  softly  on  the  incoming  tide.  A  great  peace 
was  over  the  place.  The  very  houses  seemed  to  be 
resting.  There  was  fire  or  candle  light  in  every 
glimmering  square  of  their  windows;  but  not  a  man, 
or  a  woman,  or  a  child  in  sight.  As  she  drew  near 
to  her  father's  cottage,  she  saw  that  it  was  very 
brightly  lighted;  and  then  she  remembered  that  it 
was  Friday  night,  and  that  very  likely  the  weekly 


298  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

religious  meeting  was  being  held  there.  That  would 
account  for  the  diffused  quiet  of  the  whole  village. 

The  thought  made  her  pause.  She  had  no  desire 
to  turn  her  home-coming  into  a  scene.  So  she 
walked  softly  to  the  back  of  the  little  house  and 
entered  the  curing  shed.  There  was  only  a  slight 
door — a  door  very  seldom  tightly  closed — between 
this  shed  and  the  cottage  room.  She  knew  all  its 
arrangements.  It  was  called  a  curing  shed,  but  in 
reality  it  had  long  been  appropriated  to  domestic 
purposes.  Joan  kept  her  milk  and  provisions  in  it, 
and  used  it  as  a  kind  of  kitchen.  Every  shelf  and 
stool,  almost  every  plate  and  basin,  had  its  place 
there,  and  Denas  knew  them.  She  went  to  the  milk 
pitcher  and  drank  a  deep  draught;  and  then  she 
took  a  little  three-legged  stool,  and  placing  it  gently 
by  the  door,  sat  down  to  listen  and  to  wait. 

Her  father  was  talking  in  that  soft, chanting  tone 
used  by  the  fishers  of  St.  Penfer,  and  the  drawling 
intonations,  with  the  occasional  rise  of  the  voice  at 
the  end  of  a  sentence,  came  to  the  ears  of  Denas  with 
the  pleasant  familiarity  of  an  old  song. 

As  he  ceased  speaking  some  woman  began  to  sing 
"The  Ninety-and-Nine,"  and  so  singing  they  rose 
and  passed  out  of  the  cottage  and  to  their  own 
homes.  One  by  one  the  echoes  of  their  voices 
ceased,  until,  at  the  last  verse,  only  John  and  Joan 
were  singing.  As  they  finished,  Denas  looked  into 
the  room.  Joan  was  lifting  the  big  Bible  covered 
with  green  baize.  Between  this  cover  and  the  bind 
ing  all  the  letters  Denas  had  sent  them  were  kept, 
and  the  fond  mother  was  touching  and  straightening 


ONLY  FRIENDS.  299 

them.  John,  with  his  pipe  in  one  hand,  was  lift 
ing  the  other  to  the  shelf  above  his  head  for  his  to 
bacco-jar.  The  last  words  of  the  hymn  were  still  on 
their  lips.  . 

Denas  opened  the  door  and  stood  just  within  the 
room,  looking  at  them.  Both  fixed  their  eyes  upon 
her.  They  thought  they  saw  a  spirit.  They  were 
speechless. 

"Father!    Mother!    It  is  Denas!" 

She  came  forward  quickly  as  she  spoke.  Joan 
uttered  one  piercing  cry.  John  let  his  pipe  fall  to 
pieces  on  the  hearth-stone  and  drew  his  child  within 
his  arms.  "It  be  Denas!  It  be  Denas!  her  own 
dear  self,"  he  said,  and  he  sat  down  and  took  her  to 
his  breast,  and  the  poor  girl  snuggled  her  head  into 
his  big  beard,  and  he  kissed  away  her  tears  and 
soothed  her  as  he  had  done  when  she  was  only  a 
baby. 

And  then  poor  Joan  was  on  the  rug  at  their  feet. 
She  was  taking  the  wet  stockings  and  shoes  off  of 
her  daughter's  feet;  she  was  drying  them  gently 
with  her  apron,  fondling  and  kissing  them  as  she 
had  been  used  to  do  when  her  little  Denas  came  in 
from  the  boats  or  the  school  wet-footed.  And 
Denas  was  stooping  to  her  mother  and  kissing  the 
happy  tears  off  her  face,  and  the  conversation  was 
only  in  those  single  words  that  are  too  sweet  to 
mix  with  other  words;  until  Joan,  with  that  wo 
manly  instinct  that  never  fails  in  such  extremities, 
began  to  bring  into  the  excited  tone  those  tender 
material  cares  that  make  love  possible  and  life-like. 

"Qh,   my  darling,"  she  cried,  "your    little 


300  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

be  dripping  wet,  and  you  be  hungry,  I  know,  and 
we  will  have  a  cup  of  tea.  And,  Denas,  there  be  such 
a  pie  in  the  cupboard.  And  a  bowl  of  clotted  cream, 
too.  It  is  just  like  the  good  God  knew  my  girl  was 
coming  home.  And  I  wonder  who  put  it  into  my 
heart  to  have  a  mother's  welcome  for  her  ?  And  how 
be  your  husband,  my  dear?" 

"He  is  dead,  mother." 

"  God's  peace  on  him!  " 

"And  the  little  lad,  Denas — my  little  grandson 
that  be  called  John  after  me." 

"He  is  dead,  too,  father." 

Then  they  were  speechless,  and  they  kissed  her 
again  and  mingled  their  tears  with  her  tears,  and 
John  felt  a  sudden  lonely  place  where  he  had  put 
this  poor  little  grandson  whom  he  was  never  to  see. 

Then  Denas  began  to  drink  her  warm  tea  and  to 
talk  to  her  parents;  but  they  said  no  words  but  kind 
words  of  the  dead.  They  listened  to  the  pitiful  tak- 
ing-away  of  the  young  man,  and  before  the  majesty 
of  death  they  forgot  their  anger  and  their  dislike, 
and  left  him  hopefully  to  the  mercy  of  the  Merciful. 
For  if  John  and  Joan  knew  anything,  they  knew  that 
none  of  us  shall  enter  paradise  except  God  cover  us 
with  His  mercy. 

And  not  one  word  of  all  her  trouble  did  Denas 
utter.  She  spoke  only  of  Roland's  great  love  for 
her;  of  their  trials  endured  together;  of  his  resigna 
tion  to  death;  of  her  own  loneliness  and  suffering 
since  his  burial ;  and  then,  clasping  her  father's  and 
mother's  hands,  she  said: 

"  So  I  have  come  back  to  you.     I  have  come  back 


ONLY  FRIENDS.  301 

to  my  old  life.  I  shall  never  act  again.  I  shall 
sing  no  more  in  this  world.  That  life  is  over.  It 
was  not  a  happy  life.  Without  Roland  it  would  be 
beyond  my  power  to  endure  it." 

"You  be  welcome  here  as  the  sunshine.  Oh,  my 
dear  girl,  you  be  light  to  my  eyes  and  joy  to  my 
heart,  and  there  is  no  trouble  can  hurt  me  much 
now." 

Then  Joan  said:  "  'Twas  this  very  morning  I  put 
clean  linen  on  your  bed,  Denas.  I  swept  the  room, 
and  then  made  the  pie,  and  clotted  the  cream,  and 
I  never  knew  who  I  did  it  for.  Oh,  Denas,  what  a 
godsend  you  do  be!  John,  my  old  dear,  our  life 
be  turned  to  sunshine  now." 

And  long  after  Denas  had  fallen  asleep  they  sat 
by  their  fire  and  talked  of  their  child's  sorrow,  and 
Joan  got  up  frequently  and  took  a  candle  and,  shad 
ing  it  with  her  hand,  went  and  looked  to  see  if  the 
girl  was  all  right.  When  Denas  was  a  babe  in  the 
cradle,  Joan  had  been  used  to  satisfy  her  motherly 
longing  in  the  same  way.  Her  widowed  child  was 
still  her  baby. 

In  the  morning  John  went  from  cottage  to  cottage 
and  told  his  friends  to  come  and  rejoice  with  him. 
For  really  to  John  "the  dead  was  alive  and  the  lost 
was  found."  And  it  was  a  great  wonderment  in  the 
village;  men  nor  women  could  talk  of  anything  else 
but  the  return  of  Denas  Tresham.  Many  were  really 
glad  to  see  her;  and  if  some  visited  the  poor,  stricken 
woman  thinking  to  add  a  homily  to  God's  smiting, 
they  were  abashed  by  her  evident  suffering,  by  her 
pallor  and  her  wasted  form,  and  the  sombre  plain- 


302  A    SINGER    FROM   THE  SEA. 

ness  of  her  black  garments.  For  some  days  life  was 
thus  kept  at  a  tension  beyond  its  natural  strain,  and 
Joan  and  her  daughter  had  no  time  to  recover  the 
every-day  atmosphere.  But  no  excitement  outlasts 
the  week's  perchances  and  changes,  and  after  the 
second  Sunday  all  her  acquaintances  had  seen  De- 
nas,  and  curiosity  and  interest  were  at  their  normal 
standard. 

All  her  acquaintances  but  Tris  Penrose.  Denas 
wondered  that  he  did  not  come  to  see  her,  and  yet 
she  had  a  shy  dislike  to  make  inquiries  about  him. 
For  the  love  of  Tris  Penrose  for  Denas  Penelles 
had  been  the  village  romance  ever  since  they  were 
children  together,  and  she  feared  that  a  word  from 
her  about  him  might  set  the  women  to  smiling  and 
sympathising  and  to  taking  her  affairs  out  of  her 
own  hands. 

As  the  home-life  settled  to  its  usual  colour  and 
cares,  Denas  became  conscious  of  a  change  in  it. 
She  saw  that  her  father  went  very  seldom  to  sea, 
that  he  was  depressed  and  restless,  and  that  her 
mother,  in  a  great  measure,  echoed  his  moods.  And 
she  was  obliged  to  confess  that  she  was  terribly 
weary.  There  was  little  housework  to  do,  except 
what  fell  naturally  to  Joan's  care,  and  interference 
with  these  duties  appeared  to  annoy  the  methodical 
old  woman.  The  knitting  was  far  ahead,  there 
were  no  nets  to  mend;  and  when  Denas  had  made 
herself  a  couple  of  dresses,  there  seemed  to  be  no 
work  for  her  to  do.  And  she  was  not  specially  fond 
of  reading.  Culture  and  study  she  could  under 
stand  if  their  definite  end  was  money ;  but  for  the 


ONLY  FRIENDS.  303 

simple  love  of  information  or  pleasure  books  were 
not  attractive  to  her. 

So  in  a  month  she  had  come  to  a  place  in  her  ex 
perience  when  it  was  a  consolation  to  think  of  that 
sixteen  hundred  pounds  in  London.  She  might  yet 
find  it  necessary  to  her  happiness;  for  without  some 
change  she  could  not  much  longer  endure  the  idle 
ness  and  monotony  of  her  life.  Fortunately  the 
change  came.  One  morning  a  woman  visited  the 
cottage,  and  the  sole  burden  of  her  conversation 
was  the  lack  of  a  school  in  St.  Penfer  by  the  Sea  to 
which  the  fisher-children  might  go  in  the  morning. 

"Here  be  my  six  little  uns, "  she  cried,  "and  up 
the  cliff  they  must  hurry  all,  through  any  wind  or 
weather,  or  learn  nothing.  And  then  they  be  that 
tired  when  they  do  get  home  again,  they  be  no  use 
at  all  about  the  bait-boxes  or  the  boats.  There  be 
sixty  school-going  children  in  the  village,  and  I  do 
say  there  ought  to  be  a  school  here  for  them." 

And  suddenly  it  came  into  the  heart  of  Denas  to 
open  a  school.  Pay  or  no  pay,  she  was  sure  she 
would  enjoy  the  work,  and  that  afternoon  she  went 
about  it.  An  empty  cottage  was  secured,  a  fisher- 
carpenter  agreed  to  make  the  benches,  and  at  an 
outlay  of  two  or  three  pounds  she  provided  all  that 
was  necessary.  The  affair  made  a  great  stir  in  the 
hamlet.  She  had  more  applications  for  admission 
than  the  cottage  would  hold,  and  she  selected  from 
these  thirty  of  the  youngest  of  the  children. 

For  the  first  time  in  many  months  Denas  was  sen 
sible  of  enthusiasm  in  her  employment.  But  Joan 
did  not  apparently  share  her  hopes  or  her  pleasure. 


304  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

She  was  silent  and  depressed  and  answered  Denas 
with  a  slight  air  of  injury. 

"  They  have  agreed  to  pay  a  penny  a  week  for 
each  child,"  Denas  said  to  her  mother. 

"Well,  Denas,  some  will  pay  and  some  will  never 
pay." 

"  To  be  sure.  I  know  that,  mother.  But  it  does 
not  much  matter." 

"Aw,  then,  it  do  matter,  my  girl — it  do  matter,  a 
great  deal."  And  Joan  began  to  cry  a  little  and  to 
arrange  her  crockery  with  far  more  noise  than  was 
necessary. 

"  Dear  mother,  what  is  it?  Are  you  in  trouble  of 
any  kind?" 

"  Aw,  then,  Denas,  I  be  troubled  to  think  you 
never  saw  your  father's  trouble.  He  be  sad  and 
anxious  enough,  God  knows.  And  no  one  to  say 
'  here,  John,'  or  '  there,  John,'  or  give  him  a  help 
ing  hand  in  any  way." 

"Sit  down,  mother,  and  tell  me  all.  I  have  seen 
that  father's  ways  are  changed  and  that  he  seldom 
goes  to  the  fishing.  I  hoped  the  reason  was  that  he 
had  no  longer  any  need  to  go  regularly." 

"  No  need  ?    Aw,  my  dear,  he  has  no  boat !  " 

"No  boat!  Mother,  what  do  you  mean  to  tell 
me?" 

"  I  mean,  child,  that  on  the  same  night  the  steamer 
Lome  was  wrecked  your  father  lost  his  boat  and 
his  nets,  and  barely  got  to  land  with  his  life — never 
would  have  done  that  but  for  Tris  Penrose,  who  lost 
all,  too — and  both  of  them  at  the  mercy  of  the  waves 
when  the  life-boat  reached  them.  Aw,  my  dear,  a 


ONLY  FRIENDS.  305 

bad  night.  And  bad  times  ever  since  for  your 
father.  Now  and  then  he  do  get  a  night  with 
Trenager,  or  Penlow,  or  Adam  Oliver;  but  they  be 
only  making  a  job  for  him.  And  when  pilchard 
time  comes,  'tis  to  St.  Ives  he  must  go  and  hire 
himself  out — at  his  age,  too.  It  makes  me  ugly, 
Denas.  My  old  dear  hiring  himself  out  after  he 
have  sailed  his  own  boat  ever  since  man  he  was. 
And  then  to  see  you  spending  pounds  and  pounds 
on  school-benches  and  books,  and  talking  of  it  not 
mattering  if  you  was  paid  or  not  paid;  and  me 
weighing  every  penny-piece,  and  your  father  count 
ing  the  pipefuls  in  his  tobacco-jar.  Aw,  'tis  cruel 
hard!  Cruel!  cruel!  " 

"  Now,  then,  mother,  dry  your  eyes — and  there — 
let  me  kiss  them  dry.  Listen:  Father  shall  have 
the  finest  fishing-boat  that  sails  out  of  any  Cornish 
port.  Oh,  mother,  dear!  Spend  every  penny  you 
want  to  spend,  and  I  will  go  to  the  church  town  this 
afternoon  to  buy  father  tobacco  for  a  whole  year." 

"Let  me  cry!  Let  me  cry  for  joy,  Denas!  Let 
me  cry  for  joy!  You  have  rolled  a  stone  off  my 
heart.  Be  you  rich,  dear?" 

"  Not  rich,  mother,  but  I  have  sixteen  hundred 
pounds  at  interest." 

"Sixteen  hundred  silent  pounds,  and  they  might 
have  been  busy,  happy,  working  pounds!  Aw, 
Denas,  what  hours  of  black  care  the  knowing  of 
them  might  have  saved  us.  But  there,  then — I  had 
forgotten.  The  money  be  dance  money  and  theatre 
money,  and  your  father  will  not  touch  a  penny  of  it. 

I  do  know  he  will  not." 
20 


306  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

"  Mother,  when  I  stopped  singing — when  I  left 
the  theatre  for  ever  I  had  not  in  my  purse  one  half 
penny.  Roland  gave  me  fifty  dollars;  that  came 
from  Elizabeth — that  was  all  I  had.  When  it  was 
gone,  Roland  was  employed  by  Mr.  Lanhearne.  I 
told  you  about  him." 

"  Yes,  dear.     How  then  ? " 

"Roland's  father  left  him  pictures  and  silver 
plate  and  many  valuable  things  belonging  to  the 
Treshams,  and  when  Roland  died  they  were  mine. 
Elizabeth  bought  them  from  me.  They  were  worth 
two  thousand  pounds;  she  gave  me  sixteen  hundred 
pounds." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  father  and  me?  'Twas  cruel 
thoughtless  of  you." 

"  No,  no!  I  wanted  to  come  back  to  you  as  I  left 
you — just  Denas — without  anything  but  your  love 
to  ask  favour  from.  If  I  had  come  swelling  myself 
like  a  great  lady,  worth  sixteen  hundred  pounds, 
how  all  the  people  would  have  hated  me!  What 
dreadful  things  they  would  have  said !  Father  would 
have  had  his  hands  full  and  his  heart  full  to  make 
this  one  and  that  one  keep  the  insult  behind  their 
lips.  Oh,  'twould  have  been  a  broad  defiance  to 
evil  of  every  kind.  I  did  think,  too,  that  father  had 
some  money  in  St.  Merryn's  Bank." 

"  To  be  sure.  And  so  he  did.  But  there — your 
aunt  Helen's  husband  was  drowned  last  winter,  and 
nothing  laid  by  to  bury  him,  and  father  had  it  to 
do ;  and  then  there  was  a  mortgage  on  the  cottage, 
and  that  was  to  lift,  or  no  roof  to  cover  Helen  and 
her  children,  So  with  this  and  that  the  one  him- 


ONLY  FRIENDS.  307 

dred  pounds  went  away  to  forty  pounds.  That  be 
for  our  own  burying.  There  be  twenty  pounds  of 
yours  there." 

"  Mine  is  yours!"  Then  rising  quickly,  she  struck 
her  hands  sharply  together  and  cried  out:  "ONE 
and  ALL!  ONE  and  ALL!"  * 

And  Joan  answered  her  promptly,  letting  the  towel 
fall  from  her  grasp  to  imitate  the  sharp  smiting  of 
the  hands  as  with  beaming  face  she  repeated  the 
heart-stirring  cry. 

"ONE  and  ALL!  ONE  and  ALL!  Denas.  Aw,  my 
girl,  there  was  a  time  when  I  said  in  my  anger  I 
was  sorry  I  gave  you  suck.  This  day  I  be  right 
glad  of  it!  You  be  true  blood!  Cornish  clean 
through,  Denas!" 

"  Yes,  I  be  true  Cornish,  mother,  and  the  money 
I  have  is  honest  money.  Father  can  take  it  without 
a  doubt.  But  I  will  see  Lawyer  Tremaine,  and  he 
shall  put  the  sum  I  got  in  the  St.  Penfer  News,  and 
tell  what  I  got  it  for,  and  none  can  say  I  did  wrong 
to  take  my  widow  right." 

"I  be  so  happy,  Denas!    I  be  so  happy!    My  old 

*  The  effect  of  this  Cornish  sentiment  upon  the  Cornish  heart 
is  mighty,  as  it  is  past  reasoning  about.  A  Cornish  friend  of 
mine  was  in  a  silver  mine  among  the  Andes,  and  looking  at 
the  big,  bearded  men  around,  he  suddenly  called  out  "  ONE  and 
ALL!"  In  an  instant  four  of  the  men  had  dropped  their  tools 
and  were  holding  his  hands  in  as  brotherly  fashion  as  if  the  tie 
of  blood  was  between  them.  It  is,  indeed,  one  of  those  shib 
boleths  of  race  which  move  the  soul  to  its  most  ancient  depths. 
The  malign  influences  which  destroy  even  the  domestic  affections 
touch  not  the  deeper  sense  of  race.  Age  only  increases  its  in 
tensity,  and  being  a  purely  unselfish  love,  we  may  believe  that  it 
survives  death  and  claims  the  heritage  oi  eternity. 


308  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

dear   will  have  his  own  boat!     My  old  dear    will 
have  his  own  boat!" 

"  Now,  mother,  neither  you  nor  I  can  buy  a  boat. 
Shall  we  tell  father  and  let  him  choose  for  himself?" 

Joan  knew  this  was  the  most  prudent  plan,  but 
that  love  of  "surprise  pleasures"  which  is  a  domi 
nant  passion  in  children  and  uneducated  natures 
would  not  let  Joan  admit  at  once  this  solution  of 
the  difficulty.  How  could  she  forego  the  delight  of 
all  the  private  consultations;  of  the  bringing  home 
of  the  boat;  of  the  wonder  of  the  villagers;  of 
John's  happy  amazement?  She  could  not  bear  to 
contemplate  the  prosaic,  commonplace  method  of 
sending  John  to  buy  his  own  boat  when  it  was 
within  the  power  of  Denas  and  herself  to  be  an  un 
seen  gracious  providence  to  him.  So  after  a  mo 
ment's  thought  she  said:  "There  be  Tris  Penrose. 
It  will  be  busy  all  and  happy  all  for  him  to  be 
about  such  a  job." 

"  I  have  not  seen  Tris  since  I  came  home.  He 
is  the  only  one  who  has  not  come  to  say  welcome  to 
me." 

"  Aw,  then,  'twas  only  yesterday  he  got  home  him 
self.  He  has  been  away  with  Mr.  Arundel  on  his 
yacht." 

"You  never  told  me." 

"You  never  asked.  I  thought,  then,  you  didn't 
want  Tris  to  be  named." 

"But  what  for  shouldn't  I  name  Tris?" 

"La!  my  dear,  the  love  in  Tris'  heart  was  a 
trouble  to  you.  You  were  sayng  that  often." 

"  But  Tris  knows  about  fishing-boats?  " 


ONLY  FRIENDS,  309 

"  Who  knows  more  ? " 

"  And  what  kind  of  a  boat  father  would  like  best  ? " 

"None  can  tell  that  as  well." 

"And  Tris  is  home  again?" 

"That  be  true.  Ann  Trewillow  told  me,  and  she 
be  working  at  the  Abbey  two  days  in  the  week." 

"  Has  Mr.  Arundel  bought  the  Abbey  ?" 

"  H2  has  done  that,  and  it  be  made  a  grand  place 
now.  And  when  Tris  lost  his  boat  trying  to  save 
your  father's  life  and  boat,  Mr.  Arundel  was  with 
the  coast-guard  and  saw  him.  And  he  said:  'A 
fine  young  man!  A  fine  young  man!  '  So  the  next 
thing  was,  he  spoke  to  Tris  and  hired  him  to  sail 
his  yacht.  And  'tis  far  off,  by  the  way  of  Giberal- 
tar,  they  have  been — yet  home  at  last,  thank  God!  " 

"  Tris  will  be  sure  to  come  here,  I  suppose?" 

"Ann  Trewillow  told  him  you  were  home — a 
widow,  and  all;  he  will  be  here  as  soon  as  he  can 
leave  the  yacht.  It  is  here  he  comes  first  of  all  as 
soon  as  he  touches  land  again." 

"Then  we  will  speak  to  him  about  the  boat." 

"  To  be  sure.  And  I  do  wish  he  would  hurry 
all  and  show  himself.  New  boats  be  building,  but 
the  best  may  get  sold — a  day  might  make  a  differ 
ence." 

"  And  now,  mother,  you  must  try  and  lift  the  care 
from  father's  heart.  Let  him  know,  some  way,  that 
money  troubles  are  over  and  that  he  may  carry  his 
head  up.  You  can  do  it — a  little  word — a  little  look 
from  you — he  will  understand." 

"Aw,  then,  Denas,  a  smile  is  enough.  I  can  lift 
my  eyelids,  and  he'll  see  the  light  under  them  and 


310  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

catch  it  in  his  heart.  John  isn't  a  woman.  Thank 
God,  he  can  be  happy  and  ask  no  questions — trust 
ing  all.  Your  father  be  a  good  man  to  trust  and 
hope." 

Then  the  day,  that  had  seemed  to  stretch  itself 
out  so  long  and  wearily,  was  all  too  short  for  Joan 
and  Denas.  They  talked  about  the  money  freely  and 
happily,  and  Denas  could  now  tell  her  mother  all  the 
circumstances  of  her  visit  to  Elizabeth.  They  were 
full  of  interest  to  the  simple  woman.  She  enjoyed 
hearing  about  the  dress  Elizabeth  wore;  about  her 
house,  her  anger,  her  disappointment,  and  hard  re 
luctance  to  pay  money  for  the  treasures  she  had  be 
gun  to  regard  as  her  own. 

So  the  morning  passed  quickly  away,  and  in  the 
afternoon  Denas  went  into  the  village  to  look  after 
her  school-room.  It  was  such  a  lovely  spring  day. 
The  sky  was  so  blue,  the  sea  was  so  blue,  the  earth 
was  so  green  and  sweet,  and  the  air  so  fresh  and 
clear  that  Denas  could  not  but  be  glad  that  she 
was  alive  to  be  cheered  by  them.  Not  for  a  very 
long  time  had  she  felt  so  calmly  happy,  so  hopeful 
of  the  future,  so  resigned  to  the  past. 

After  her  business  in  the  village  was  over  she 
walked  toward  the  cliff.  She  had  some  idea  that  it 
would  be  pleasant  to  go  up  to  the  church  town,  but 
just  where  the  trees  and  underwood  came  near  to  the 
shingle  a  little  bird  singing  on  a  May-thorn  be 
guiled  her  to  listen.  Then  the  songster  went  on 
and  on,  as  if  it  called  her,  and  Denas  followed  its 
music;  until,  by  and  by,  she  came  to  where  the 
shingle  was  but  a  narrow  strip,  and  the  verdure  re- 


ONLY  FRIENDS.  311 

treated,  and  the  rocks  grew  larger  and  higher;  and. 
anon,  she  was  at  the  promontory  between  St.  Pen- 
fer  and  St.  Clair. 

It  would  now  be  impossible  to  go  up  the  cliff 
and  back  again  before  tea-time,  and  she  sat  down 
to  rest  a  little  before  returning  home.  She  sat 
longer  than  she  intended,  for  the  dreamy,  monotonous 
murmur  of  the  waves  and  the  stillness  and  solitude 
predisposed  her  to  that  kind  of  drifting  thought 
which  keeps  assuring  time:  "  I  am  going  directly." 

She  was  effectually  roused  at  last  by  the  sound  of 
a  clear,  strong  voice  whistling  a  charming  melody. 
She  sat  quite  still.  A  conviction  that  it  was  Tris 
Penrose  came  into  her  heart.  She  wondered  if  he 
would  notice — know — speak  to  her.  Tris  saw  her 
figure  as  quickly  as  it  came  within  his  vision,  and  as 
quickly  as  he  saw  it  he  knew  who  was  present.  He 
ceased  whistling  and  cried  out  cheerily: 

"Denas?    What,  Denas?" 

She  stood  up  then  and  held  out  her  hands  to  him. 
And  she  was  startled  beyond  measure  by  the  Tris 
that  met  her  gaze.  Naturally  a  very  handsome  man, 
his  beauty  was  made  most  attractive  by  a  sailor  suit 
of  blue  broadcloth.  His  throat  was  open  to  the  sea 
breeze,  a  blue  kerchief  tied  around  it  in  a  sailor's 
knot.  And  then  her  eyes  wandered  to  his  sun- 
browned  face,  close-curling  black  hair,  and  the  lit 
tle  blue,  gold-trimmed  cap  set  upon  the  curls.  The 
whole  filled  her  with  a  pleasant  wonder.  She  made 
a  little  time  over  his  splendour,  and  asked  if  he  was 
going  to  the  pilchard  fishing  in  such  finery.  And 
he  took  all  her  hurried,  laughing,  fluttering  remarks 


312  A    SnVGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

with  the  greatest  good-humour.  He  said,  indeed, 
that  he  had  been  told  she  was  home  again,  and  that 
he  wore  the  dress  because  he  was  coming  to  see  her. 

Then  they  sat  down,  and  she  told  Tris  what 
she  desired  to  do  for  her  father,  and  Tris  entered 
into  the  project  as  enthusiastically  as  if  he  was  a 
child.  Never  before  had  Tris  felt  so  heart-satisfied. 
It  was  such  a  joy  to  have  Denas  beside  him;  such 
a  joy  to  know  that  she  was  free  again;  such  a  joy 
to  share  a  secret  with  her.  And  gradually  the 
effusiveness  of  their  first  meeting  toned  itself  down 
to  quiet,  restful  confidence,  and  then  they  rose  to 
gether  and  began  to  walk  slowly  toward  the  cottage. 
For  of  course  Joan  was  to  be  consulted,  and  besides, 
Tris  had  a  present  for  her  in  his  pocket. 

The  westering  sun  sent  level  rays  of  sunshine  be 
fore  them,  and  they  tried  involuntarily  to  step  in 
it  as  they  used  to  do  when  they  were  children. 
Tris  could  not  help  a  smile  as  they  did  so,  and  then 
one  of  those  closely  personal  conversations  began 
whose  initial  point  is  always:  u  And  do  you  remem 
ber?  "  Tris  remembered  everything,  and  especially 
one  Saturday  when  they  ran  away  together  to  a  lit 
tle  fairy  cove  and  made  boats  all  day  long.  Yes, 
every  movement  of  that  happy  day  was  in  Tris' 
heart,  and  he  told  Denas  that  the  same  pebbly  shore 
was  still  there,  and  that  often  he  fancied  he  heard 
on  it  the  beat  of  their  little  pattering,  naked  feet, 
and  wished  that  they  could  have  been  children  upon 
the  shore  for  ever,  and  ever,  and  evermore. 

"  I  do  not  think  that  would  have  been  nice  at  all, 
Tris,"  answered  Denas.  "It  is  better  to  be  grown 


ONLY  FRIENDS.  3r3 

up.  You  were  only  good  to  play  with  then.  I  could 
not  have  asked  you  to  go  and  buy  a  boat  for 
father,  could  I  ?  " 

And  Tris  looked  at  her  sweet,  pale  face,  and  not 
ing  how  the  pink  colour  rushed  into  her  cheeks  to 
answer  his  looks,  thought  how  right  she  was,  and 
that  it  was  much  better  to  have  Denas  a  woman  to 
be  loved  than  a  child  to  be  played  with. 

And  somehow,  after  this,  they  had  no  more  words 
to  say,  and  Tris  walked  at  her  side  under  his  old 
embarrassment  of  silence.  Nor  could  Denas  talk. 
If  she  tried  to  do  so,  then  she  raised  her  eyes,  and 
then  Tris'  eyes  looking  into  hers  seemed  to  re 
proach  her  for  the  words  she  did  not  say.  And  if 
she  kept  her  eyes  on  the  shingle,  she  still  felt  Tris 
to  be  looking  at  her,  questioning  her,  loving  her 
just  as  he  used  to  do — and  she  could  not  bear  it — 
never!  never!  At  the  first  opportunity  she  must 
make  Tris  understand  that  they  could  only  be 
friends — friends  only — and  nothing,  positively  noth 
ing  more. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
THE  "DARLING  DEN  AS." 

"  .    .    .    Good  the  more 
Communicated,  the  more  abundant  grows." 

— MILTON. 

"  So  the  boat  was  built.     Aw,  they  wouldn't  be  hoult; 
And  every  trennel  and  every  boult 
The  best  of  stuff.     Aw,  didn'  considher 
The  'spense  nor  nothin' — not  a  fig  ! 
And  three  lugs  at  her — that  was  the  rig — 
And  raked  a  bit,  three  reg'lar  scutchers, 
And  carried  her  canvas  like  a  ducherss. 
Chut  !  the  trim  is  in  the  boat. 
Ballast  away!  but  the  trim's  in  the  float — 
In  the  very  make  of  her  !     That's  the  trimming  !  " 

— T.  E.  BROWN. 

MONEY  in  the  bank  is  all  the  comfort  to  the 
material  life  that  a  good  conscience  is  to  the 
moral  life.  Joan  was  restored  to  her  best  self  by  the 
confidence  her  child  had  given  her,  and  John  enter 
ing  his  cottage  in  the  midst  of  a  happy  discussion 
between  Denas,  Tris,  and  his  wife,  felt  as  if  the 
weight  of  twenty  years  suddenly  dropped  away  from 
him.  He  thought  it  was  Tris  who  brought  the  sun 
shine,  and  he  rejoiced  in  it,  and  induced  the  young 
man  to  tell  them  about  the  yacht's  trip  and  the  old 
cities  on  the  Mediterranean  which  he  had  visited. 
Everyone  sees  strange  places  with  their  own 


THE  "DARLING    DEN  AS."  3*5 

mental  and  spiritual  sight,  and  Tris  had  seen 
Genoa  and  Venice  and  Rome  and  Corinth  from  the 
standpoint  of  a  Cornish  Methodist  fisherman.  But 
apart  from  this  partiality  he  had  made  sensible  ob 
servations  of  the  strange  ways  of  building  and  liv 
ing,  and  had  come  to  the  conviction  that  Cornish 
people  held  the  great  secret  of  a  happy  life.  As 
for  the  Mediterranean  itself,  Tris  considered  it  "a 
jade  of  a  sea,  nohow  worth  the  praise  it  got." 

"You  may  read  the  Cornish  seas  like  a  book, 
John,"  he  said,  "but  this  Mediterranean  be  this 
way — you  have  to  watch  it  every  minute.  Turn 
your  back  on  it  for  a  bite  or  a  sup,  and  it  will  get 
the  better  of  you  some  way,  and,  most  likely  of  all, 
with  one  of  its  dirty  white  squalls.  Then  I  tell 
you,  John,  it  is  all  hands  to  reef!  Quick!  and  if  a 
single  breadth  of  canvas  be  showing,  it  is  a  rip  and  a 
roar  and  the  death  of  the  yacht  and  of  every  man 
in  her." 

"And  what  of  the  yacht  herself,  Tris?  Be  she 
good-tempered  and  good-mannered?" 

"She  do  behave  herself  beautiful.  The  seas  may 
fly  over  her  cross-trees,  but  if  you  make  her  trig 
she  comes  to  her  bearings  like  a  shot  to  its  mark; 
shakes  herself  as  if  she  was  ready  for  a  race,  and 
then  away  she  do  go — just  like  a  sea-gull  fora  fish." 

So  they  talked  the  evening  away,  and  Denas  lis 
tened  and  watched  the  handsome  yachtsman,  kin 
dling  and  laughing  to  the  tales  he  told.  And  when  he 
went  away  she  felt,  as  others  did,  the  sudden  fall  in 
the  mental  temperature  and  the  chill  and  silence 
that  follow  any  unnatural  excitement,  But  Penas, 


316  A    SINGER   FROM   THE   SEA. 

as  well  as  John  and  Joan,  were  too  simple  for  such 
considerations.  They  only  felt  the  change,  and 
were  sure  that  it  was  Triswho  brought  the  sunshine, 
and  so,  when  he  went,  took  it  away  with  him. 

But  after  this  night  there  was  a  different  atmo 
sphere  in  John  Penelles'  cottage.  John's  unhappi- 
ness  had  been  mainly  caused  by  the  sight  of  his 
wife's  anxiety  and  sorrow;  and  if  Joan  was  her  old 
self,  John  was  not  the  man  to  let  the  loss  of  his  boat 
and  his  position  make  him  miserable.  For  in  this 
little  cottage  the  wife  held  the  same  mighty  power 
that  the  wife  holds  in  all  finer  homes — the  power  to 
either  make  her  husband  weak  and  sorrowful  or  to 
strengthen  his  heart  for  anything.  When  Joan 
smiled,  then  John  could  not  only  enjoy  the  present, 
but  he  could  also  bravely  face  the  future.  For  when 
a  man  can  trust  in  his  wife,  then  he  can  hope  in  his 
God  and  all  things  are  possible  to  him. 

Denas  also  caught  the  trick  of  hoping  and  of  be 
ing  happy.  She  opened  her  school  with  thirty 
scholars  and  found  out  her  vocation.  No  one 
could  doubt  the  voice  which  had  called  her  to  this 
work;  she  went  to  it  as  naturally  as  a  bird  goes  to 
build  its  nest.  She  loved  the  children  and  they 
loved  her.  At  the  end  of  the  first  week  she  found 
herself  compelled  to  make  her  number  forty.  The 
sweet  authority  pleased  her.  The  children's  affec 
tion  won  her.  Her  natural  power  to  impart  what 
knowledge  she  had  gave  her  the  sense  of  a  bene 
faction.  Such  loving  allegiance!  Such  bigoted 
little  adherents!  Such  blind  disciples  as  Denas 
had!  In  a  couple  of  weeks  she  was  the  idol  of  every 


THE   "DARLING   DEN  AS."  31? 

child  in  St.  Penfer  by  the  Sea,  and  as  mothers  see 
through  their  children,  she  was  equally  popular  with 
the  children  of  larger  growth. 

One  very  singular  incident  of  this  popularity  was 
the  fact  that  every  child,  without  special  intent, 
without  the  slightest  thought  of  offence,  called  their 
beloved  teacher  Denas  Penelles.  For  a  time  she 
corrected  the  mistake,  but  the  name  Tresham  was 
strange  and  unfamiliar.  They  looked  at  her  with 
wide-open  eyes  and  then  went  back  to  the  old  word. 
Denas  perceived  that  they  heard  her  called  Penelles 
in  their  homes,  and  that  it  was  useless  to  take 
offence  where  none  was  intended.  Yet  the  in 
ferred  wrong  to  her  dead  husband  wounded  her 
and  rekindled  in  her  heart  the  fire  of  old  affection. 

"They  want  me  to  forget  his  very  name,"  she 
thought  angrily,  and  the  natural  result  was  a  deter 
mination  to  nurse  with  greater  fondness  the  memory 
which  time  and  circumstances  were  daily  doing  their 
best  to  efface. 

In  the  mean  time  all  had  been  going  on  satisfac 
torily  about  the  new  fishing-smack.  Tris  had  taken 
Mr.  Arundel  into  his  confidence.  He  wished  to  have 
his  permission  to  make  a  careful  selection  and  to 
attend  to  all  matters  connected  with  its  proper  trans 
fer.  And  though  that  gentleman's  own  feelings  did 
not  he  upon  the  surface  of  his  nature  or  explain 
themselves  in  child-like  secrets  and  surprises,  he 
could  understand  and  almost  envy  the  wealth  of 
emotions  and  illusions  that  demanded  such  primi 
tive  expressions. 

So  he  permitted  Tris  to  absent  himself  frequently 


3i8  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

for  such  a  laudable  purpose.  Indeed,  Mr.  Arundel 
had  seen  the  death  of  John's  boat,  and  this  point 
of  interest  enabled  him  to  feel  something  of  the 
pleasure  and  importance  which  centred  around  the 
boat  now  building  to  take  its  place.  For  Tris  had 
found  in  a  yard  ten  miles  north  just  the  very 
kind  of  smack  John  had  always  longed  for — a  boat 
not  built  by  mathematical  measurements,  but  a  won 
derful,  weatherly,  flattish  smack;  that  with  a  jump 
would  burst  through  a  sea  any  size  you  like,  and 
keep  right  side  up  when  the  waves  were  fit  to  make 
a  mouthful  of  her. 

She  was  building  for  the  pilchard  season  and  was 
to  be  ready  for  the  middle  of  June.  And  at  length 
she  was  finished  and  waiting  to  be  brought  to  her 
own  harbour.  If  she  had  been  a  living,  loving  hu 
man  creature,  her  advent  could  not  have  been  more 
eagerly  longed  for.  Yet  there  had  been  a  short 
period  of  coolness  between  Tris  and  Denas,  for  Tris 
in  some  moment  of  enthusiasm  had  gone  beyond  the 
line  Denas  had  marked  out  for  him.  And  then  she 
had  been  cold  and  silent  and  Tris  had  been  miser 
able.  Joan,  also,  had  taken  the  young  man  rather 
scornfully  to  task. 

"Tris,"  she  said,  "you  be  as  knowing  about  a 
woman  as  Peter  Mullet  was,  and  he  was  hanged  for 
a  fool.  Be  you  looking  to  sow  and  reap  in  the  same 
month?" 

"  Not  as  I  know  by,  but — but " 

''But  you  be  so  blind  in  love  you  could  not  see 
a  hole  in  a  ladder  or  tell  the  signs  on  a  woman's 
face.  Denas  be  'fraid  of  her  own  self.  Let  her  be. 


THE  "DARLING    DEN  AS."  3r9 

Let  her  be.  If  you  do  say  a  word  now  about  your 
love  she  will  run  back  and  hide  herself  in  an  old 
love — that  be  a  woman's  way.  See,  now!  As  the 
old  love  quails  the  new  love  will  fetch  up — but 
time  given  for  quailing,  Tris,  for  all  that.  Denas 
had  a  sight  of  trouble,  Tris;  she  may  well  be  feared 
to  try  matrimony  again." 

"  I  would  try  and  make  her  happy.  I  would  be 
a  good  husband." 

"Husbands!  husbands!  Tris,  they  be  like  pil 
chards — the  bad  ones  are  very  bad  and  the  best 
ones  be  but  middling." 

Then  the  loving  fellow  said  with  a  big  sigh  that 
he  would  wait — but  tired  of  waiting  and  going 
away  again,  and  back  only  when  God  and  Mr.  Arun- 
del  said  so. 

"Aw,  then,*  answered  Joan,  "a  good  thing. 
Women  have  tA  miss  a  man  before  they  know  they 
love  him.  Give  Denas  time  to  miss  you,  Tris,  and 
when  the  boat  is  home  be  a  bit  careless  like.  If  she 
do  wonder  and  worry  a  little — a  good  thing  for  her. 
Women  they  be  made  up  of  contraries,  but  sweet 
as  blossoms  and  as  good  as  gold  for  all  that,  Tris." 

On  the  twenty-fourth  all  was  ready  to  bring  home 
the  boat.  The  boat  had  been  sold  to  Denas  Tre- 
sham,  the  money  paid,  and  the  deed  of  transfer  to 
John  Penelles  ready  made  out.  There  had  also 
been  prepared  a  paper  for  the  St.  Penfer  News, 
which  was  to  appear  that  day,  and  which  Lawyer 
Tremaine  said  would  supply  a  ten-days'  holiday 
gossip  for  the  citizens.  And  no  day  specially  made 
for  so  happy  an  event  could  have  been  lovelier. 


320  A    SINGER   FROM    THE  SEA. 

The  sea  was  dimpling  all  over  in  the  sunshine; 
there  was  just  the  right  wind,  and  just  enough  of  it, 
to  let  Tris  reach  harbour  in  the  afternoon.  John 
wondered  at  the  air  of  excitement  in  his  cottage. 
Joan  was  singing,  Denas  had  her  best  dress  on,  and 
both  had  been  busy  making  clotted  cream,  and 
junket,  and  pies  of  all  kinds. 

In  fact,  John  was  a  little  depressed  by  this  ex 
travagance  of  light  hearts.  He  did  not  think  the 
money  Denas  got  from  her  school  warranted  it,  and 
he  was  heart-sick  with  the  terrible  fear  that  the 
busy  season  was  at  hand  and  that  he  had  found 
nothing  to  do.  Adam  Oliver's  two  nephews  from 
Cardiff  had  come  to  help  him,  and  that  shut  "one 
place;  and  neither  Trenager  nor  Penlow  had  said  a 
word  to  him,  and  his  brave  old  soul  sank  within  him. 

"And  what  be  in  the  wind  with  you  women  I 
know  nothing  of,"  he  said  fretfully,  "but  you  do 
have  some  unlikely  old  ways." 

"What  way  be  the  wind,  John,  dear?" 

"A  little  nor'ard,  what  there  be  of  it — only  a 
capful,  though." 

"  Aw,  then,  John,  look  to  the  nor'ard,  for  good 
luck  do  come  the  way  the  wind  blows." 

"Good  luck  do  come  the  way  God  sends  it,  Joan." 

"And  many  a  time  and  oft  it  do  be  coming  and 
us  not  thinking  of  it." 

John  nodded  gravely.  There  was  little  hope  in 
his  heart,  but  he  went  as  usual  to  the  pier  and 
stood  there  watching  the  boats.  Most  of  them  were 
now  ready  for  the  fishing.  When  the  men  on  the 
lookout  saw  the  shadow  of  a  dark  cloud  coming  on 


THE  "DARLING   DENAS."  321 

and  on  over  the  sea,  when  they  waved  the  signal- 
bush  right  and  left  over  their  heads  and  sweeping 
their  feet,  then  they  would  out  of  harbour  and 
shoot  the  seine.  John  was  very  anxious.  His  lips 
were  moving,  though  he  was  silent.  His  body  was 
mindful  of  the  situation,  his  soul  was  praying. 

"That  be  a  strange  boat,"  said  Penlow  after  a 
long  gossip;  "well  managed,  though.  The  man  at 
her  wheel,  whoever  he  be,  knows  the  set  of  the  tide 
round  here  as  well  as  he  knows  his  cabin.  I  won 
der  what  boat  that  be?  " 

John  had  no  heart  to  echo  the  wonder.  Another 
strange  boat,  doubtless,  bringing  more  fishers.  He 
said  it  was  getting  tea-time,  he  would  go  along. 
He  knew  that  if  the  fish  were  found  and  there  was 
a  seat  in  a  boat  it  would  be  offered  him.  He 
would  not  give  his  mates  the  pain  of  refusing  or 
of  apologising.  The  next  day  he  would  go  to  St. 
Ives. 

When  he  reached  his  cottage  he  saw  Joan  and 
Denas  on  the  door-step  watching  the  coming  boat. 
Their  smiles  and  interest  hurt  him.  He  walked  to 
the  hearth  and  began  to  fill  his  pipe.  Then  Denas, 
with  a  large  paper  in  her  hand,  came  to  his  side. 
She  slipped  on  to  his  knee — she  laid  her  cheek 
against  his  cheek — she  said  softly,  and  oh,  so  lov 
ingly: 

"  Father!  father!  The  boat  coming — did  you  see 
her  ? " 

"To  be  sure,  Denas.      I  saw  her,  my  dear." 

"  She  is  your  boat,  father — yours  from  masthead 
to  keel!  All  yours!  " 

21 


322  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  and  then  said : 

"  Speak  them  words  again,  Denas. " 

She  spoke  them  again,  smiling  with  frank  delight 
and  love  into  his  face. 

"Thank  God!  Now  tell  me  about  it!  Joan,  my 
old  dear,  come  and  tell  me  about  it." 

Then  they  sat  down  together  and  told  him  all, 
and  showed  him  the  St.  Penfer  News  containing 
Lawyer  Tremaine's  statement  regarding  the  pro 
perty  which  had  come  of  right  to  Denas.  And  John 
listened  until  the  burden  he  had  been  carrying 
rolled  quite  away  from  his  heart,  and  with  a  great 
sigh  he  stood  up  and  said  loudly,  over  and  over 
again,  "Thank  God!  Thank  God!  Thank  God!" 
Then,  as  if  a  sudden  hurry  pressed  him,  he  cried — 
"  Come,  Joan!  Come,  Denas!  Let  us  go  to  the  pier 
and  welcome  her  home." 

She  was  just  tacking  to  reach  harbour  when  they 
mingled  with  the  crowd  of  men  and  women  already 
there.  And  Ann  Trewillow  was  calling  out:  "Why, 
it  isTrisPenrose  at  her  wheel!"  Then  as  she  came 
closer  a  man  shouted :  "  It  be  the  Darling  Denas. 
It  must  be  John  Penelles'  boat.  To  be  sure  it  be 
John's  boat!"  This  opinion  was  reached  by  an  in 
stant  conviction,  and  every  face  was  turned  to  John. 

"It  be  my  boat,  mates.  Thank  God  and  my  lit 
tle  girl.  It  be  my  boat,  thank  God!  " 

And  then  Tris  was  at  the  slip,  and  the  anchor 
down  and  all  the  men  were  as  eager  about  the  new 
craft  as  a  group  of  horsemen  could  possibly  be 
about  the  points  of  some  famous  winner.  Tris  had 
to  tell  every  particular  about  her  builder  and  her 


THE  "DARLING   DEN  AS."  323 

building,  and  as  the  fishers  were  talking  excitedly 
of  these  things,  Joan  gave  a  general  invitation  to 
her  friends,  and  they  followed  her  to  the  cottage, 
and  heard  the  St.  Penfer  News  read,  and  had  a  plate 
of  junket  *  and  of  clotted  cream. 

And  they  were  really  proud  and  glad  of  what  they 
heard.  Denas  had  made  herself  so  beloved  that  no 
one  had  a  grudging  or  envious  feeling.  Everyone 
considered  how  she  had  come  back  to  them  as  if  she 
had  been  penniless;  "and  teaching  our  little  ones 
too — with  sixteen  hundred  pounds  at  her  back! 
Wonderful !  Wonderful !  "  said  first  one  and  then 
another  of  the  women.  Indeed,  if  Denas  had 
thought  out  a  plan  to  make  herself  honoured  and 
popular,  she  could  hardly  have  conceived  of  one  more 
in  unison  with  the  simple  souls  she  had  to  influence. 
They  could  not  sleep  for  talking  about  it.  Denas 
Penelles  was  a  veritable  romance  to  them. 

"And  fair  she  was  and  fair  she  be!"  said  Mary 
Oliver,  a  good  woman,  with  not  a  pinch  of  pride  in 
her  make-up.  "  And  if  Tris  Penrose  win  her  and 
she  win  him,  a  proper  wedding  it  will  be — a  wed 
ding  made  by  their  guardian  angel.  I  do  think 
that."  And  the  group  of  women  present  answered 
one  and  then  another,  "  A  proper  wedding  it  will 
be,  to  be  sure." 

In  the  evening  there  was  a  great  praise-meeting 
at  John's  cottage;  for  in  St.  Penfer  all  rejoicing 
and  all  sorrow  ended  in  a  religious  meeting.  And 
Denas  and  Tris  sang  out  of  the  same  hymn-book, 

*  Junket  is  made  of  fresh  milk,  spirits,  spices,  sugar;  curdled 
with  rennet  and  eaten  with  clotted  cream. 


324  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

and  sat  side  by  side  as  they  listened  to  John's 
quaintly  eloquent  tribute  to  the  God  "  who  did  al 
ways  keep  faith  with  His  children. "  "  I  was  like  to 
lose  sight  of  my  God,"  he  cried,  "  but  my  God  never 
did  lose  sight  of  me.  God's  children  be  well  off, 
He  goes  so  neighbourly  with  them.  He  is  their 
pilot  and  their  home-bringer.  I  did  weep  to  my 
self  all  last  night;  but  just  as  His  promise  says,  joy 
did  come  in  the  morning."  And  then  John  burst  in 
to  song,  and  all  his  mates  and  neighbours  with  him. 

And  it  is  in  such  holy,  exalted  atmospheres  that 
love  reaches  its  sweetest,  fairest  strength  and  bloom. 
Tris  had  no  need  of  words.  Words  would  have 
blundered,  and  hampered,  and  darkened  all  he -had 
to  say.  One  look  at  Denas  as  they  closed  the  book 
together — one  look  as  he  held  her  hand  on  the  door 
step,  and  she  knew  more  than  words  could  ever  have 
said.  She  saw  through  his  eyes  to  the  bottom  of 
his  clear,  honest  soul,  and  she  knew  that  he  loved 
her  as  men  love  who  find  in  one  woman  only  the 
song  of  life,  the  master-key  of  all  their  being. 

She  expected  Tris  would  come  and  see  her  the 
next  day,  but  Ann  Trewillow  brought  word  that  he 
had  sailed  with  Mr.  Arundel.  Tris  had  been  ex 
pecting  the  order,  and  the  yacht  had  only  been 
waiting  for  guests  who  had  suddenly  arrived.  Denas 
was  rather  pleased.  She  was  not  yet  ready  to  admit 
a  new  love.  She  felt  that  in  either  refusing  or  ac 
cepting  Tris'  affection  she  would  be  doing  both 
herself  and  Tris  an  injustice.  A  love  that  does  not 
spring  into  existence  perfect  needs  cautious  tend 
ing;  too  much  sunshine,  too  much  care,  too  con- 


THE  "DARLING    DEN  AS."  325 

slant  watching  will  slay  it.  There  must  be  time 
given  for  it  to  grow. 

Without  reasoning  on  the  matter,  Denas  felt  that 
absence  would  be  a  good  thing.  She  was  afraid  of 
being  driven  by  emotion  or  by  circumstances  into 
a  mistaken  position.  And  she  had  now  an  absorbing 
interest  in  her  life.  Her  school  was  a  delight.  No 
consideration  of  money  qualified  her  pleasure  in  her 
pupils.  She  was  eager  to  teach  all  she  knew.  She 
was  eager  to  learn,  that  she  might  teach  more.  As 
the  weeks  went  by  her  school  got  a  local  fame;  it 
was  considered  a  great  privilege  to  obtain  a  place 
in  it. 

Good  fortune  seemed  to  have  come  to  St.  Penfer 
by  the  Sea  when  Denas  came  back  to  it.  Never 
had  there  been  a  more  abundant  sea-harvest  than 
that  summer.  The  Darling  Denas  brought  luck 
to  the  whole  fleet.  She  was  a  swift  sailer,  always 
first  on  the  fishing-ground  and  always  first  in 
harbour  again;  and  it  was  a  great  pleasure  to  Denas 
to  watch  her  namesake  leading  out  and  leading 
home  the  brown-sailed  bread-winners  of  the  hamlet. 
When  the  time  and  the  tide  and  the  weather  all 
served,  Denas  might  now  often  be  seen,  with  her 
mother  and  the  rest  of  the  fishermen's  wives,  stand 
ing  on  the  wind-blown  pier  watching  the  boats  out 
in  the  evening. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  she  had  positively 
declined  the  loving  ceremony — when  she  had  hated 
the  thought  of  any  community  in  such  feelings — 
when  the  large  brown  faces  of  the  wives  and  mothers 
and  the  sad  patience  of  their  attitude  had  seemed  to 


326  A    SINGER   FROM   THE   SEA. 

her  only  the  visible  signs  of  a  poor  and  sorrowful 
life.  And  even  yet,  as  she  stood  among  them  she 
was  haunted  by  a  rhyme  she  had  read  in  some  pic 
ture  paper  years  ago — a  rhyme  that  so  pathetically 
glanced  at  love  that  dwelt  between  life  and  death 
that  she  never  could  see  a  group  of  fishermen's  wives 
on  the  pier  watching  the  boats  outside  without 
saying  it  to  herself: 

"  They  gazed  on  the  boats  from  the  pier,  ah,  me! 

Till  their  sails  swelled  in  the  wind, 
Till  darkness  dropped  down  over  the  sea 

And  their  eyes  with  tears  were  blind. 
Then  home  they  turned,  and  they  never  spoke, 
These  daughters  and  wives  of  the  fisher-folk." 

But  years  and  experience  had  taught  her  the 
falsehood  of  extremes;  she  knew  now  that  life  has 
many  intermediate  colours  between  lamp-black  and 
rose-pink,  and  that  if  the  fisherman's  wife  had 
hours  of  anxious  watching,  she  had  also  many 
hours  of  such  rapturous  love  as  comes  sparingly  to 
others — love  that  is  the  portion  of  those  who  come 
back  from  the  very  grave  with  the  shadow  of  death 
on  their  face. 

In  the  autumn  Tris  returned  for  a  few  days,  but 
he  was  so  busy  that  he  could  not  leave  the  yacht. 
She  was  being  provisioned  and  put  in  order  for  the 
long  Mediterranean  winter  voyage,  and  Tris  was  in 
constant  demand.  But  John  and  Joan  and  Denas 
walked  over  to  St.  Clair  to  bid  him  good-bye.  And 
never  had  Tris  looked  so  handsome  and  so  manly. 
His  air  of  authority  became  him.  In  a  fishing-boat 
men  are  equal,  but  on  this  lordly  pleasure-boat  it 


THE  "DARLING   DEN  AS."  3*7 

was  very  different.  Tris  said  to  one  man  go 
and  to  another  come,  and  they  obeyed  him  with 
deference  and  alacrity.  This  masterful  condition 
impressed  Denas  greatly.  She  thought  of  Tris  with 
a  respect  which  promised  far  more  than  mere  ad 
miration  for  his  beauty  or  his  picturesque  dress. 

After  Tris  was  gone  the  winter  came  rapidly,  but 
Denas  did  not  dread  it.  Neither  did  John  nor  Joan. 
John  looked  upon  his  boat  as  a  veritable  godsend. 
What  danger  could  come  to  him  on  a  craft  so  blessed  ? 
All  her  takes  were  large  and  fortunate.  The  other 
boats  thought  it  lucky  to  sail  in  her  wake.  On 
whatever  side  the  Darling  Denas  cast  her  bait,  they 
knew  it  was  right  to  cast  on  that  side  also. 

Joan  was  happy  in  her  husband's  happiness;  she 
was  happy  in  her  unstinted  housekeeping;  she  was 
now  particularly  happy  in  Denas'  school.  The  lit 
tle  lads  and  lasses  brought  all  their  news,  all  their 
joys  and  sorrows  to  Denas;  and  when  Denas  went 
home  every  day,  Joan,  with  her  knitting  in  her 
hands,  was  waiting  to  give  her  a  dainty  meal  and  to 
chat  with  her  over  all  she  had  heard  and  all  she  had 
done. 

And  Denas  was  happy.  When  she  mentally  con 
trasted  this  busy,  loving  winter  with  the  sorrows 
of  the  previous  one,  with  the  hunger  and  cold  and 
poverty,  the  anguish  of  death  and  the  loneliness,  she 
could  not  but  be  grateful  for  the  little  home-har 
bour  which  her  storm-tossed  heart  had  found  again. 
If  she  had  a  regret,  it  was  that  she  could  not  retain 
her  hold  upon  her  finished  life.  Every  time  she 
asked  her  heart  after  Roland,  memory  gave  her 


328  4    SINGER   FROM    THE   SEA. 

pictures  in  fainter  and  fainter   and  fainter  colours. 
Roland  was  drifting  farther  and  farther  away. 

She  could  no  longer  weep  at  his  name.  A  gentle 
melancholy,  a  half-sacred  remoteness  invested  the 
years  in  which  he  had  been  the  light  of  her  life. 
For 

"  When  the  lamp  is  shattered, 

The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead  ; 
When  the  cloud  is  scattered, 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  fled." 

Mercifully,  youth  has  this  marvellous  elasticity. 
And  the  children  filled  all  the  vacant  places  in  her 
life.  For  as  yet  she  did  not  think  much  nor  at  all 
decidedly  about  Tris.  If  Roland  was  slipping 
away  from  memory,  Tris  by  no  means  filled  her 
heart.  Yet  she  was  pleased  when  Ann  Trewillow's 
little  maid  Gillian  told  her  one  morning: 

"Master  Arundel's  yacht  be  come  into  harbour 
safe  and  sound,  and  Captain  Tris,  he  be  brave  and 
hearty,  and  busy  all  to  get  ashore  again.  And  my 
mother  do  say  Mr.  Arundel  he  be  going  to  marry 
a  fine  lady,  and  great  doings  at  the  Abbey,  no  doubt. 
And  mother  do  say,  too,  that  Captain  Tris  will  be 
marrying  you.  And  I  was  a  brave  bit  frightened  at 
that  news,  and  I  up  and  answered  mother:  'It  bean't 
so.  Miss  Denas  likes  better  teaching  us  boys  and 
girls.'  I  said  that,  and  wishing  it  so  with  all  my 
heart. " 

And  Denas,  seeing  that  the  boys  and  girls  were 
looking  anxiously  at  her  for  an  assurance  of  this 
position,  said  positively: 

"I  am  happier  with  you,  children,  than  I  could  be 


THE  "DARLING   DEN  AS."  329 

with  anyone  else,  and  I  do  not  intend  to  marry  at 
all." 

"Never?    Say  never!" 

"Well,  then — never." 

Yet  there  was  a  faint  longing  in  her  heart  for  love 
all  her  own.  A  man  can  love  what  others  love,  but 
a  woman  wants  something  or  someone  to  love  that 
is  all  her  own.  And  she  was  interested  enough 
in  Tris'  return  to  dress  with  more  than  usual  care 
that  evening.  She  felt  sure  he  would  come,  and  she 
put  on  her  best  black  gown  and  did  not  brush  the 
ripples  out  of  her  front  hair,  but  let  the  tiny  ten 
drils  soften  the  austere  gravity  of  her  face  and 
make  that  slight  shadow  behind  the  ears  which  is 
so  womanly  and  becoming. 

About  seven  o'clock  she  heard  his  footsteps  on  the 
shingle  and  the  gay  whistle  to  which  they  timed 
themselves.  Joan  went  to  the  door  to  welcome  him. 
Denas  stood  up  as  he  entered,  and  then,  meeting  his 
ardent  gaze,  trembled  and  flushed  and  sat  down 
again.  He  sat  down  beside  her.  He  told  her 
how  much  already  he  had  heard  of  her  gracious  wofk 
in  the  village.  He  said  it  was  worth  going  to 
France  and  Italy  and  Greece,  only  to  come  back 
and  see  how  much  more  lovely  than  all  other  women 
the  Cornish  women  were.  And  by  and  by  he  took 
from  his  pocket  the  most  exquisite  kerchief  of  Mal 
tese  lace  and  a  finely-carved  set  of  corals.  Denas 
would  have  been  less  than  a  woman  had  she  not 
been  charmed  with  the  beautiful  objects.  She  let 
Tris  knot  the  lovely  silky  lace  around  her  throat, 
and  she  went  to  her  mirror  and  put  the  carved  coral 


33<>  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

comb  among  her  fair,  abundant  tresses,  and  the  rings 
in  her  ears,  and  the  necklace  and  the  locket  round 
her  white  slender  throat. 

Then  Tris  looked  at  her  as  if  he  had  met  a  god 
dess  in  a  wilderness;  and  Joan,  with  her  hands 
against  her  sides,  congratulated  and  praised  herself 
for  having  given  to  St.  Penfer  by  the  Sea  a  daugh 
ter  so  lovely  and  so  good. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

DENAS. 

"  She  that  is  loved  is  safe;  and  he  that  is  loved  is  joyful." 

— BISHOP  TAYLOR. 

"  No  pearls,  no  gold,  no  stones,  no  corn,  no  spice, 
No  cloth,  no  wine,  of  Love  can  pay  the  price; 
Divine  is  Love,  and  scorneth  worldly  pelf, 
And  can  be  bought  with  nothing  but  itself." 

— HEYWOOD. 

"  To-morrow,  Love,  as  to-day, 
Two  blent  hearts  never  astray; 
Two  souls  no  power  may  sever; 
Together,  O  Love,  for  ever  !" 

— ROSSETTI. 

DURING  the  summer  which  followed,  Tris 
was  much  at  home.  Mr.  Arundel  did  not  go 
to  Norway;  he  was  in  London  with  the  lady  whom 
he  intended  to  marry,  until  the  end  of  the  season, 
and  afterward  frequently  at  her  country  home  in 
Devonshire.  Tris  had  then  his  opportunity  and  he 
did  not  neglect  it.  But  he  was  an  impulsive  young 
man,  and  very  often  lost  the  ground  on  Monday 
that  he  had  gained  on  Sunday.  All  of  love's  fitful 
fevers  and  chills  tormented  him,  and  then  he  tor 
mented  Denas.  He  was  jealous  of  every  moment  of 
her  time,  of  every  kind  word  and  look  she  bestowed 
on  others.  The  school  offended,  the  children  irri- 


332  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

tated  his  conception  of  his  own  rights.  He  was  as 
thoroughly  unreasonable  and  Denas  as  thoroughly 
contradictory  as  was  necessary  for  the  most  tantalis 
ing  of  love  affairs. 

About  the  beginning  of  the  summer,  just  before 
the  pilchard  season,  Jacob  Trenager  died.  He  was  a 
Pentrath  man,  and  of  course  "  went  home  "  for  his 
burying.  It  did  not  seem  an  event  likely  to  affect 
the  lives  of  Tris  and  Denas,  and  yet  it  did  have  a 
very  pleasant  influence  upon  their  future.  In  some 
far-back  generation  a  Trenager  had  saved  the  life 
of  an  Arundel,  and  ever  since,  when  any  adult  of 
one  family  was  buried  an  adult  of  the  other  threw 
the  first  earth  upon  the  coffin,  in  token  of  their  re 
membrance  and  of  their  friendship.  Mr.  Arundel 
was  aware  of  the  tradition,  and  he  desired  to  perpetu 
ate  it.  He  was,  perhaps,  actuated  by  some  relig 
ious  respect  for  the  customs  and  feelings  of  his  an 
cestors;  he  was,  undoubtedly,  considerate  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  just  bought  a  valuable  estate  in  the 
midst  of  these  old  clannish  fisher-folk,  and  well  aware 
that  such  a  trifling  concession  to  their  prejudices 
might  in  a  future  Parliamentary  struggle  be  of  pre 
ponderating  value  to  him. 

So,  in  accord  with  his  expressed  desire,  Trenager's 
funeral  was  observed  with  all  the  ancient  ceremo 
nies.  His  mates  from  the  numerous  villages  around 
carried  him  all  the  way  on  his  bier  to  Pentrath; 
carried  him  by  the  sea-shore,  singing  hymns  as  they 
went.  A  great  crowd  of  men  and  women  were  in 
the  procession,  and  the  old  church  at  Pentrath  was 
full  to  overflowing.  Jacob's  forefathers  for  centuries 


DEN  AS.  333 

back  lay  in  Pentrath  church-yard,  and  there  were 
old  people  living  in  the  town  wno  remembered  Jacob 
casting  the  first  earth  on  the  present  Mr.  Arundel's 
father's  coffin,  and  who  wondered  whether  the  son 
would  do  the  same  kindness  for  the  fisherman. 

The  day  after  Jacob's  death  it  was  noticed  in  St. 
Penfer  that  a  strange  gentleman  called  upon  Denas, 
and  that  Denas  went  up  the  cliff-breast  with  him 
and  remained  in  the  church  town  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  day.  And  for  the  next  two  days  the 
same  thing  occurred.  Probably  John  and  Joan 
knew  the  meaning  of  these  visits,  but  they  said 
nothing  in  response  to  the  numerous  "  I  wonders" 
of  their  acquaintances.  However,  on  the  day  of 
the  funeral  the  secret  was  made  evident.  The 
strange  gentleman  was  the  organist  of  Pentrath 
church,  and  his  visit  to  Denas  was  made  to  induce 
her  to  sing  a  portion  of  the  funeral  service;  and 
St.  Penfer  being  nearer  than  Pentrath,  they  had  gone 
to  St.  Penfer  church  to  practise. 

Nothing,  however,  was  said  of  the  intention, 
because  Denas  had  not  felt  sure  that  at  the  last 
moment  she  would  be  able  to  fulfil  her  promise. 
But  in  the  preliminary  practice  she  quite  recovered 
her  self-possession,  and  the  long  rest  had  given  to 
her  voice  a  maturity  of  sweetness  and  power  that 
made  it  a  delight  to  exercise  it.  She  thought  with 
a  pleasant  pride  of  the  solemn  joy  she  was  going  to 
give;  nor  was  she  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  her 
father  and  mother  and  Tris  would  have  an  oppor 
tunity  to  listen  to  her  singing  music  worthy  of  the 
noblest  voice  to  interpret. 


334  A    SINGER   FROM   THE  SEA. 

It  was  a  warm,  sunshiny  day.  The  church  win 
dows  were  all  open,  and  the  rustle  of  the  trees  in 
the  church-yard,  the  hum  of  the  bees,  the  songs  of 
the  birds,  the  murmur  of  the  town  beyond,  came 
through  them.  Mr.  Arundel  stood  at  the  foot  of  the 
coffin,  Jacob's  family  at  the  head;  the  crowd  of 
fishers  filled  the  old  pews  and  aisles  to  overflowing. 
Suddenly  there  was  a  burst  of  triumphant  melody. 
It  filled  the  church  and  lifted  the  souls  of  all  pres 
ent  up,  and  up,  far  beyond,  and  far 

' '  Above  the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim  spot 
Which  men  call  earth." 

"  /  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth  I " 

Higher  and  higher  the  clear,  strong  voice  rang  out 
the  joyful  assurance,  till  every  heart  swelled  to  rap 
ture  and  every  eye  was  wet  with  holy  tears. 

"  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  /" 

And  as  Denas  sang  the  blessed  affirmation,  the 
organ  pealed  out  its  noble  symphony,  and  men  and 
women  lifted  wet  faces  heavenward,  until  to  the  last 
majestic  confident  strain — 

"  Yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I  see  God" — 

the  coffin  was  lifted  and  the  mourners  and  the  singer 
followed  it  to  the  open  grave. 

Never  before  had  Denas  had  such  joy  in  God's 
pleasant  gift  of  a  melodious  voice.  To  look  at  her 
father's  and  mother's  faces  was  a  happiness  suffi 
cient.  The  adoration  of  Tris,  the  delight  and  grati 
tude  of  her  friends,  the  conviction  that  she  had 
lifted  for  a  few  moments  mortal  men  above  their  mor- 


DEN  AS.  335 

tality  and  made  them  realise  that  they  should  "yet 
see  God,"  was  in  itself  a  recompense  beyond  any 
thing  she  had  ever  dreamed  of.  Nor  could  she  put 
aside  the  comparisons  that  naturally  came  from  this 
effort  of  her  power.  To  sing  holily  and  loftily,  to 
sing  in — 

"...   Strains  that  might  create  a  soul 
Under  the  ribs  of  death" — 

How  dear  to  heaven  and  earth  such  saintly  melody! 
How  different  from  the — 

"  Midnight  song  and  revelry, 
Tipsy  dance  and  jollity  " 

that  had  once  appeared  an  elysium  of  musical  rav 
ishment  to  her. 

Tris  walked  home  with  Denas,  and  this  evening 
they  came  very  close  to  each  other.  And  then,  at 
the  close  of  it,  Tris  unfortunately  said  some  words 
which  showed  how  bitterly  he  regarded  the  years 
that  had  been  stolen  from  him  by  Roland  Tresham. 
And  Denas  resented  the  anger  shown  to  this  paling, 
dying  shade  of  her  memory,  and  the  next  day  Tris 
went  away  with  Mr.  Arundel  and  did  not  return  for 
full  five  weeks. 

But  Mr.  Arundel  had  been  so  much  interested  in 
the  singer  as  to  ask  from  Tris  all  that  he  could 
tell  him  of  the  life  of  Denas.  And  Tris,  like  all 
lovers,  was  only  too  glad  to  talk  of  the  girl  he 
adored;  so  as  they  sat  together  at  midnight  on  the 
lonely  sea,  with  the  full  moon  above  them,  they 
grew  very  confidential.  Tris  told  all  the  story  of 
his  love,  and  Mr.  Arundel  told  Tris  about  the  beauty 


336  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

and  accomplishments  of  the  woman  he  was  going  to 
marry;  and  there  was,  in  this  way,  a  kind  of  intimacy 
established  which  resulted  in  a  financial  propo 
sition  making  the  question  of  marriage  a  very  easy 
and  happy  one  to  Captain  Tristram  Penrose,  of  the 
yacht  Spindrift. 

That  five  weeks  of  lonely  heart-ache  taught  Denas 
that  Tris  had  become  a  very  dear  portion  of  her  life, 
and  when  he  returned  he  found  it  more  easy  than 
he  had  dared  hope  to  induce  her  to  bury  forever  the 
strange  years  which  a  strange  love  had  somehow 
slipped  into  her  sheaf  of  life.  And  she  promised 
Tris  to  let  them  fall  from  out  her  grasp,  all  the 
vain  regrets,  the  vain  hopes,  the  vain  love  which 
were  garnered  in  them. 

Then  Tris  told  her  that  he  had  signed  a  contract 
with  Mr.  Arundel  for  five  years,  and  that  a  portion 
of  this  contract  was  the  use  of  the  stone  cottage  on 
the  hill  beyond  the  Abbey — the  pretty  home  covered 
with  clematis  and  jasmine  vines  and  surrounded 
by  a  lovely  garden.  He  said  if  Denas  would  share 
it  with  him  he  would  make  it  as  beautiful  within  as 
it  was  without,  and  that  he  would  love  her  more 
and  more  fondly  to  the  last  moment  of  his  life. 
He  spoke  with  all  the  simple  passion  of  his  nature 
and  circumstances;  but  his  heart  was  hot  behind  his 
words,  and  Denas  gave  herself  freely  to  their  per 
suasion. 

They  were  sitting  on  the  rocks  by  the  sea-side  as 
she  did  so;  the  waves  were  breaking  at  their  feet; 
the  boats  were  lying  on  the  horizon;  the  village 
was  as  quiet  as  a  painted  village.  She  gave  her 


DENAS.  337 

heart  and  hand  to  Tris  there;  she  suffered  him  at 
last  to  take  her  to  his  heart  and  kiss  her;  she  in 
toxicated  him  with  rapture  by  shyly  kissing  him  in 
return.  Then  they  went  back  to  the  village  together. 
Joan  was  asleep  in  her  chair.  John  was  away  with 
the  boats.  They  both  kissed  Joan  and  Tris  called 
her  "mother."  And  Joan  said  she  had  just  been 
dreaming  of  such  a  joy,  and  she  blessed  them  and 
then  went  to  the  door  and  looked  toward  the 
Darling  Denas.  If  she  could  only  see  her  old  dear 
upon  the  deck,  she  thought  she  could  send  a  thought, 
a  thanksgiving,  that  would  somehow,  some  way, 
reach  him. 

In  a  few  days  after  this  happy  understanding, 
Mr.  Arundel  had  apparently  an  equally  joyful  sur 
prise.  Something  happened,  and  the  days  of  his 
waiting  were  over,  and  he  was  to  be  married  im 
mediately.  Then  it  was,  in  Cornish  phrase,  "busy 
all  "  to  get  the  yacht  overhauled  and  well  vic 
tualled.  For  the  young  couple  were  going  to  spend 
the  winter  on  the  Mediterranean  coasts,  and  Tris 
was  as  much  interested  in  the  preparations  as  was 
possible  to  be,  even -though  the  unexpected  change 
disarranged  and  postponed  his  own  plans. 

For  there  had  absolutely  been  in  Tris'  mind  a 
resolution  to  marry  Denas  before  he  went  on  the 
winter's  cruise.  Of  course,  in  making  this  resolu 
tion  he  had  never  taken  into  account  the  contrary 
plans  of  Denas  and  Joan,  neither  of  whom  was  dis 
posed  to  make  any  haste  about  the  marriage. 

"  Love  do  soon  die  if  there  be  no  house  for  him 
to  live  in,"  said  Joan;  "and  I  do  feel  to  think 


33*  A    SINGER    FROM   THE  SEA. 

that  the  furnishing  of  the  house  be  the  first  thing. 
And  that  not  to  be  done  in  a  week  or  a  month,  either. 
Ham-sam  work  have  no  blessing  or  happiness  with 
it.  To  be  sure  not.  Why  would  it?" 

Denas  held  the  same  opinions,  so  Tris  went  away 
and  left  the  furnishing  of  the  house  to  Denas  and 
Joan.  They  would  have  all  the  winter  to  prepare 
the  napery  and  crockery  and  consult  about  carpets 
and  furniture.  For  now  that  he  was  to  become  a 
married  man  and  a  householder,  Tris  was  quite  in 
clined  to  take  all  the  domestic  and  social  consid 
eration  his  position  gave  him.  Mr.  Arundel,  in 
placing  such  a  pretty  home  at  the  service  of  his  cap 
tain,  required  by  the  very  gift  a  suitable  accept 
ance  of  it. 

And  no  one  but  a  mother  can  tell  with  what  de 
lightful  pride  Joan  entered  into  this  duty.  She 
had  never  bought  carpets  and  stuffed  furniture 
before.  The  china  tea-service  would  not  let  her 
sleep  for  three  nights,  she  was  so  divided  between 
the  gold  and  white  and  the  pink  and  gold.  All  the 
little  niceties  of  the  dining-room  and  the  sitting- 
room — the  American  kitchen  utensils  which  to  Joan 
seemed  marvellous  and  beautiful,  the  snowy  cur 
tains  at  every  window,  the  white-handled  knives  and 
the  plated  silver — all  these  things  held  joys  and 
surprises  and  never-ending  interest  to  the  happy 
mother. 

Between  these  duties  and  her  school,  the  long 
winter  months  passed  happily  away  to  Denas.  The 
school,  indeed,  troubled  her  in  a  certain  way.  Who 
was  to  keep  it  together?  John  also  had  formed  it 


DENAS.  339 

into  a  Sunday-school  and  was  greatly  delighted  with 
the  work.  But  a  really  good  work  never  falls 
through;  there  is  always  someone  to  carry  it  on, 
and  one  day  Denas  was  visited  among  her  pupils  by 
the  Wesleyan  preacher  from  St.  Penfer.  He  was 
astonished  at  her  methods  and  her  success,  and  he 
represented  the  claims  of  such  a  school  with  so 
much  force  to  the  next  district  meeting  that  they 
gladly  appointed  a  teacher  to  fill  the  place  of 
Denas.  It  cost  her  a  little  pang  to  resign  her  au 
thority;  but  her  marriage  was  drawing  near,  and  it 
would  necessarily  be  followed  by  her  removal  to  St. 
Clair,  and  it  was  important  that  the  children  should 
be  provided  for. 

About  the  end  of  March  she  had  a  letter  from  Tris. 
The  yacht  was  then  at  Gibraltar  on  its  return  pas 
sage,  and  Tris  might  be  looked  for  within  a  few 
days.  But  the  house  was  nearly  ready  and  all  her 
personal  preparations  were  made.  Such  as  pertained 
to  the  ceremony  and  their  future  life  they  would 
make  together  when  Tris  returned  home.  Never 
had  father,  and  mother,  and  daughter,  been  so 
happy  and  so  closely  one.  Joan  had  grown  young 
again.  John  sang  from  morning  to  night.  Denas 
had  the  loveliness  of  love  transfiguring  the  loveli 
ness  of  mere  physical  beauty.  It  was  busy  all  and 
happy  all  within  the  Penelles'  cottage  during  those 
days  of  expectation. 

One  morning  Joan  was  going  through  the  whole 
house  before  the  grand  final  preparations,  and  for 
some  reason  she  opened  a  closet  usually  little  re 
garded — a  closet  full  of  those  odds  and  ends  families 


34°  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

do  not  like  to  destroy.  The  first  thing  she  lifted 
was  that  picture  of  Denas  as  "  Mademoiselle  Denasia 
in  Pinafore."  It  had  been  her  pride  and  comfort  in 
sorrowful  days  now  overpast,  and  she  laid  it  upon 
the  table  and  stood  looking  at  it.  Denas  entered 
the  room  while  this  act  of  tender  reminiscence  was 
going  on.  She  did  not  at  first  perceive  or  under 
stand  the  object  of  it.  But  when  she  reached  her 
mother's  side  and  saw  the  yellow,  faded  present 
ment,  her  face  flushed  crimson,  and  with  flashing 
eyes  she  covered  the  picture  with  her  hands. 

"  Why  did  you  keep  it  ?  Oh,  mother,  how  could 
you!" 

"Aw,  then,  Denas,  'twas  my  only  comfort  many 
a  day  and  many  a  time.  Don't  take  it  away — 
Denas!  Denas!" 

"I  will  not  have  it  in  the  house — 'tis  a  shame  to 
me;  it  breaks  my  heart;  how  could  you,  mother?" 
and  she  drew  the  paper  away,  and  walking  to  the 
fire,  threw  it  upon  the  coals.  It  burned  slowly, 
browning  gradually  from  the  dancing  feet  to  the  tips 
of  the  fingers  meeting  above  the  head. 

With  a  white,  sad  face  she  watched  it  burn  to  a 
brown  film  that  the  upward  draught  of  the  chimney 
carried  out  of  her  sight.  Joan  also  watched  the  im 
molation,  and  she  was  a  little  angry  at  it.  That 
picture  of  Mademoiselle  Denasia  was  one  of  Joan's 
secret  idols.  No  one  likes  to  watch  the  destruction 
of  their  idols,  and  Joan  was  hardly  pacified  by  the 
kisses  and  loving  words  with  which  Denas  extenu 
ated  her  act.  For  an  hour  or  two  she  had  an  air  of 
injury.  She  had  been  in  the  habit  of  showing  this 


DEN  AS.  341 

picture  with  an  air  of  serious  secrecy  and  with 
many  sighs  to  any  new  acquaintance  or  strange  vis 
itor,  and  its  destruction  really  put  a  stop  to  this 
clandestine  bit  of  egotism;  for  who  would  believe 
such  an  improbable  story  without  the  pictured  De- 
nasia  to  prove  it? 

Denas  regarded  the  incident  as  a  happy  omen. 
As  she  watched  the  picture  turn  to  cinder,  she 
buried  fathoms  deep  below  the  tide  of  her  present 
life  all  the  restless,  profitless,  half-regretful  memo 
ries  it  represented.  A  word  or  two  said  by  the 
preacher  the  day  he  visited  her  school  had  clung  to 
her  consciousness  as  a  burr  clings  to  wool.  They 
were  speaking  of  the  education  necessary  for  the 
class  of  children  gathered  there,  and  Denas,  after 
naming  the  studies  pursued,  said:  "  They  are  suffi 
cient  for  the  life  before  them;  "  then,  with  an  in 
voluntary  sigh,  she  added,  "  It  is  a  very  narrow 
life." 

And  perhaps  the  minister  had  heard  something  of 
her  story,  for  he  answered  gravely:  "God  knows 
just  where  He  wants  every  soul.  That  is  the  life, 
that  is  the  school,  for  that  soul,  and  no  life  is  too 
narrow.  The  humblest  will  afford 

'  The  common  round,  the  trivial  task 
Which  furnish  all  we  ought  to  ask — 
Room  to  deny  ourselves.' 

Mrs.  Tresham,  that  is  the  grand  lesson  we  are  sent 
hereto  learn;  self-denial,  as  against  self-pleasing 
and  self-assertion." 

Denas  only  said,  "Yes,   sir;"  but  she  took  the 


34*  A    SINGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

words  into  her  heart  and  found  herself  repeating 
them  a  hundred  times  a  day. 

Tris  came  home  just  before  Easter.  The  spring 
was  in  his  heart,  the  spring  was  in  his  life  and  love. 
The  winds,  the  young  trees,  the  peeping  crocus- 
buds,  were  part  and  parcel  of  Denasand  of  his  hopes 
in  her.  What  charming  walks  they  took  to  their 
home!  What  suggestions  and  improvements  and  al 
terations  they  made!  No  two  young  thrushes,  build 
ing  their  first  nest,  could  have  been  more  interested 
and  more  important.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arundel  had 
remained  in  town  for  the  Easter  holidays,  and  Tris 
was  very  nearly  lord  of  all  his  time.  He  rather 
thought  Mr.  Arundel  had  purposely  left  him  so  at 
this  happy  epoch,  and  the  idea  gave  him  the  more 
pleasure  in  his  light  duties. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  good-natured  discussion 
about  the  proper  date  for  this  wonderful  wedding. 
Tris  acted  as  if  it  was  the  first  wedding  in  the  world. 
He  was  sure  everyone  in  St.  Penfer  and  St.  Clair 
would  be  disappointed  beyond  comfort  unless  they 
had  a  chance  to  be  present.  He  thought,  therefore, 
that  Easter  Sunday  would  be  the  day  of  days  in 
this  respect.  All  the  boats  would  be  in  harbour. 
All  the  women  and  children  would  have  their  new 
gowns  and  bonnets  on.  There  would  be  a  special 
service  in  the  chapel — and  then,  finally: 

"  The  house  be  ready,  mother,  and  I  be  ready, 
and  Denas  be  ready,  and  what  are  we  waiting  for?" 

And  as  John,  and  Joan,  and  Tris  were  of  one 
mind,  what  could  Denas  do  but  be  of  the  same 
mind  ?  After  all,  the  great  anxiety  was  the  weather. 


DEN  AS.  343 

The  restless  way  in  which  Tris  queried  of  the  winds 
and  watched  the  clouds  almost  made  John  angry. 
"You  do  be  enough  to  beckon  a  storm,  Tris,"  he 
cried.  "Let  be!  Let  be!"  Yet  for  all  that  John 
himself  walked  oftener  to  his  door  than  was  his  cus 
tom,  and  looked  seaward  and  windward  in  a  furtive 
kind  of  way,  very  amusing  to  the  women,  who  saw 
clearly  through  his  anxiety. 

But  even  the  weather  sometimes  comes  up  to  our 
hopes  and  is  even  better  than  our  expectations. 
Easter  Sunday  broke  in  a  royal  mood  of  sunshine. 
There  was  not  a  breath  of  wind;  the  sea  was  like  a 
sea  of  sapphire  sprinked  with  incalculable  dia 
monds;  the  boats  lay  lazily  swinging  on  the  tide- 
top  ;  the  undercliff  was  in  its  Easter  green  and  white. 
The  lark  set  the  bride-song  going,  and  so  woke  up 
the  thrush,  and  the  thrush  called  to  the  blackbird, 
and  the  woods  soon  rang  with  music. 

The  ceremony  was  to  be  in  the  St.  Clair  chapel, 
and  at  nine  o'clock  Tris  came  in  the  yacht's  boat 
for  his  bride  and  her  parents.  The  boat  had  been 
freshly  painted  white.  The  four  sailors  who  were 
to  row  her  were  in  snow-white  duck  and  blue  caps 
and  kerchiefs.  Tris  had  on  his  best  uniform — blue 
broadcloth  and  gilt  buttons.  Tris  was  handsome 
enough  and  proud  and  happy  enough  to  have  set 
off  a  fisher's  suit  of  blue  flannel;  but  he  trod  like  a 
prince  and  looked  like  a  young  sea-god  in  his  splen 
did  array. 

It  had  been  thought  best  for  the  bride  to  go  to  St. 
Clair  by  sea.  There  was  no  carriage  available, 
and  the  walk  to  St.  Clair  was  long  and  apt  to  be 


344  A    SIXGER    FROM    THE   SEA. 

wet  fom  the  last  tide.  And  nobody  wanted  the 
bride-dress  to  be  soiled.  Besides  which,  the  sea 
way  gave  the  St.  Penfer  people  an  opportunity  to 
set  her  off  with  waving  kerchiefs  and  a  thousand 
good  wishes;  and  it  also  gave  the  people  of  St. 
Clair  an  opportunity  to  welcome  her  in  the  same 
manner.  Those  who  did  not  know  about  such  things 
and  who  were  wickedly  reckless  concerning  signs 
and  omens — which  sailor  and  fisher  folk  never 
are — said  this  seaward  road  to  the  church  might 
have  been  avoided  and  the  bride's  gown  kept 
sweetly  fresh  and  unruffled  by  Denas  simply  dress 
ing  in  her  own  house.  But  Denas  knew  well  that  it 
was  unlucky;  for  the  bride  in  her  bride-dress  must 
go  into  her  house  before  she  comes  out  of  it. 

The  chapel  was  crowded  up  to  the  pulpit  steps, 
all  but  John's  pew,  which  was  empty  until  the 
bride's  party  took  possession  of  it.  It  was  a  sight 
to  make  men  and  women  happy  only  to  look  at 
Joan  Penelles*  face.  John  tried  to  preserve  a  grave 
look,"  but  Joan  beamed  upon  every  man  and  woman 
present.  When  the  little  stir  of  their  entrance  had 
subsided,  then  the  Easter  service  went  joyously  on. 
It  was  known  that  the  wedding  was  to  be  solemnized 
between  the  sermon  and  the  benediction,  and 
though  the  sermon  was  a  very  good  one,  all  thought 
it  a  little  long  that  morning.  For  there  is  some 
thing  about  a  bridal,  and  a  bride,  and  a  bridegroom, 
that  is  perennially  fresh  and  young. 

But  at  length  the  happy  moment  arrived.  Tris 
rose  and  offered  his  hand  to  Denas.  Then  Denas 
also  rose  and  let  her  long  cloak  fall  down,  and  put 


DEN  AS.  345 

her  bonnet  off  her  head,  and  walked  by  Tris'  side 
to  the  communion  table.  John  and  Joan  proudly 
followed.  All  with  curious  interest  watched  the 
bride,  for  few  then  present  had  ever  seen  a  bride  so 
bride-like.  And  well  might  the  handsome  sailor 
be  proud  of  her  as  she  stood  beside  him  robed  in 
white,  lustrous  silk,  with  lilies  at  her  breast  and  the 
gleam  of  scarlet  corals  in  her  fair  hair  and  at  her 
white  throat. 

Let  those  who  have  been  so  blessed  as  to  live 
through  such  moments  imagine  them.  And,  alas! 
for  those  who  cannot  say  with  a  smile,  "I  know; 
I  know."  In  this  marriage,  the  bride  and  bride 
groom's  joy  was  doubled  by  being  so  enthusiasti 
cally  shared.  It  was  not  only  the  preacher  who 
gave  them  the  benediction;  they  walked  through  an 
atmosphere  so  full  of  kindness  and  good-will  and 
good  wishes  that  they  could  do  nothing  at  all  but 
smile,  and  smile,  and  smile  again  to  the  "  God 
bless  you,  dears,"  which  greeted  them  at  every  step. 

Then  the  clerk  spread  open  the  book  and  the 
preacher  put  the  pen  into  the  bride's  hand.  She 
looked  at  her  husband;  she  looked  at  her  mother; 
she  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  wrote  boldly — 
not  Denasia — but — 

"  Denas. " 

Neither  father  nor  mother  disputed  the  name. 
They  certified  it  with  their  own  names,  and  then 
passed  with  their  children  into  the  sunshine.  The 
congregation  were  waiting  outside.  They  parted 
and  made  a  way  between  them  for  the  bride  and  the 
bridegroom  to  take;  and  so  standing  there,  watched 


346  A    SINGER    FROM    THE  SEA. 

them  go  hand-in-hand  up  the  hill-side  to  the  pretty 
vine-covered  house  which  was  to  be  their  future 
home.  To  mortal  eyes  they  seemed  to  walk  alone, 
but  they  did  not.  They  had  right  welcome  com 
pany,  for — 

"  Love  took  them  softly  by  the  hand, 

Love  led  them  through  their  own  dear  door, 
And  showed  them  in  the  sea  and  land 
Beauty  they  had  not  known  before — 
Never  before  :  O  Love!  sweet  Lov«! 

"  And  now  it  cannot  pass  away  ; 

They  see  it  wheresoe'er  they  go  ; 
And  in  their  hearts  by  night  and  day 
Its  gladness  singeth  to  and  fro, 

By  night  and  day:  O  Love!  sweet  Love  J" 


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